Chuck vs the Simple Twist of Fate
by I Am Not Amused
Summary: AU - The world can change from a butterfly flapping its wings. If Bryce was unable to remove Chuck from the CIA watch list, how would that change Chuck? Or current CIA recruit Bryce? Or Fulcrum recruit Jill? Eventual - VERY eventual - Charah.
1. Midnight Organ Fight

_March 17, 2003_

Bryce Larkin wasn't entirely sure why the thought made him so angry. He wasn't sure why blood coursed violently through his veins and he could hear his pulse in his own ears and his teeth ground against each other when he gave the idea a moment's thought. For all practical intents and purposes, it had nothing to do with him. Or, at least, that's what his CIA trainers would say. Their line would be, 'The recruitment of other possible agents performed by Professor Fleming are at Professor Fleming's discretion. They have nothing to do with you, regardless of any pre-existing history with the recruit.' And Bryce didn't have a logical line of thinking to circumvent that logic. All he knew was that the idea made him angry.

The idea was that Professor Fleming was going to recruit Chuck to the CIA.

Chuck Bartowski, Bryce's best friend, was going to be recruited into the CIA. The goofy dork who he messed around with in the library, shooting each other with dart guns. The gangly, awkward nerd who he joined in programming Zork mods and watching _Firefly_ and trying to figure out which piece of dystopian literature the film _Equilibrium_ stole from the most. It didn't make sense in the same way that it made devastatingly complete sense. Chuck, his mind running a hundred thousand miles an hour, was able to discern patterns and figure out solutions to complex problems in the blink of an eye, all of the answers stuttered out joyfully, like he had unlocked a particularly elaborate safe. And, as uncoordinated as he could occasionally be, he also never made any attempt to be more physically competent. With his frame, Bryce admitted to himself begrudgingly as he stormed towards Fleming's office, he had a high ceiling for physical possibilities after a year or two of training.

But he was _Chuck_. Chuck, who freaked out about spiders. Chuck, who insisted that all of his fraternity brothers use non-lethal mouse traps and when they caught a mouse, release it into the woods a mile or so from campus. Chuck, who he hadn't ever seen throw a punch. Chuck, who encountered rejection so often that he usually expected it. Chuck, who routinely took the blame for things that weren't even remotely his fault, just to diffuse tension. He was the type of guy to take a bullet for you, even if you were arguing with him at the time.

Bryce recalled his first six months of lessons as a CIA trainee as he marched up the stairs of the Psychology department. Those six months were dedicated totally to what amounted to one lesson: Emotions get you killed. The idea went that emotions will happen, but you have to bury them if you want to survive. Emotions split loyalties between the mission and the person or thing you have emotions towards. Create a workable distance from the things you care about in your life. Distance yourself from true emotions, but not so far as to ostracize yourself from those relationships. Prior relationships may need to be called upon in the future, so a professional closeness must remain.

Chuck cared about everyone. Chuck went out of his way to have the backs of all his frat buddies. Chuck had emotions towards everything and that was what made him Bryce's best friend. Chuck's emotions were what Bryce so loved about hanging out with Chuck; he got the opportunity to see someone so selfless in day-to-day action, someone whose two biggest pet peeves were liars and needless infliction of pain. And those were two things the CIA would make him accept. And Bryce didn't know if he could watch that. Didn't know if he could see Chuck turn from the nicest, most honest person he knew (with a side of hilariously detailed sci-fi knowledge to boot) into someone who maintained "professional closeness" with possible assets (though Bryce doubted anything could drill the sci-fi trivia out of his friend).

Bryce had intercepted the call, the one made to Chuck's room phone. They had one answering machine between the two of them, and between Chuck's friends calling him up for homework advice and Jill calling him up for date plans and more than a few girls calling Bryce to get dates of their own, their machine filled up quick, so it was the duty of whoever noticed the thing getting full to jot down quick messages for the other. And when Bryce heard Professor Fleming's voice on the machine, asking Chuck to come in for an interview... Bryce didn't understand why it made him so angry, but he figured it was the idea of the CIA-- already insistent that he distance himself from his best friend-- wanting to change the best man he knew.

He saw Fleming's secretary, a work study student that he remembered giving him flirtatious glances as he rounded the corner, smiling politely at her as he sat down in a vacant chair. Other than himself and the girl, the hallway was completely deserted. Just as it had been when Fleming had conducted Bryce's first interview. Bryce wondered idly if the CIA had anything to do with that bit of voodoo.

Over the secretary's intercom, he heard the words "Send Chuck in," and instead of saying anything to the secretary (he remembered, suddenly, that her name was Stacey) he barged through the door, his face as stoic and impassive as he looked at Fleming for any sign of.. he didn't even know what. Malevolence? It would make the anger a lot easier to justify.

"Bryce?" Fleming asked, confused, "This isn't a good time, I'm waiting for another student."

"Chuck Bartoski?" Bryce questioned, his voice set on edge. Again, inexplicably, his blood coursed more viciously than normal, "He never got your message."

Now Fleming looked more suspicious than confused, and Bryce wanted to laugh internally. Bryce figured that he had more to worry about from Fleming than vice versa, "What are you talking about?" The professor asked.

"You put _Chuck_ on the CIA recruitment track," Bryce said accusingly.

"It's not up to _me_, Bryce," Fleming justified, his voice annoyed and Bryce saw the older man roll his eyes, "But they want him for the Omaha Project."

Bryce knew _of_ the Omaha Project, but not entirely of what it entailed. Something to do with encoded memories, millions of secrets embedded into single images, ready to be recalled given proper stimuli. It was very hush hush, but Bryce's performance in Fleming's class had him on a shortlist of candidates. A sudden doubt surged through him, as he thought of him and Chuck working on the project together, side-by-side, as they always had been since they met at Stanford.

But it was quashed as he thought of Chuck being broken down in training, a training that Bryce's ego and sense of duty could maintain his core personality through, a training that would alter Chuck into a different person, and the anger snapped up inside of him again, "That's a _military_ operation," If the CIA wanted Chuck, he would be okay as an analyst, and Bryce had held out hope for that being the case, but the mention of Project Omaha squashed that remote possibility, "They'll turn Chuck into a--"

Fleming interrupted him before he could finish his sentence (what would he have finished it with, anyway? A weapon? A killer? He didn't even know), "I'm required to send all top test results to the agency," Fleming said patiently.

Fleming's patience only infuriated Bryce, "I want my friend out of this."

Fleming shook his head, both in defiance and seemingly in awe as he looked down at Chuck's file, "He's amazing. Key words in his essay responses correlate to _98%_ of the subliminal images in the exam!"

Bryce's patience had worn down to its last thread, "You don't get it," Bryce said, affecting his most intimidating tone, though he wasn't sure it would work on Fleming, "Chuck's a _good person_," He stressed those two words, hoping they would make Fleming understand that they were more than platitudes, but the lack of expression on the recruiter's face meant that Fleming truly _didn't_ get it, "He's got too much heart for this kind of work," Bryce continued, a plea slipping inadvertently into his tone, "He's no operative."

Fleming's gaze was impassive and unimpressed, and Bryce slapped his hand on the table in frustration, "You can't put him out in the field! He won't survive!" And there was the crux of the matter, to Bryce. It wasn't so much the change. Or the idea of him losing his good nature. It was the idea of losing him. Losing the type of person Chuck was, the type of person the CIA was fighting to keep in the world. Bryce couldn't help but let a stifled gasp of emotion escape his mouth.

Fleming seemed at least slightly apologetic when he said, "The agency is not going to let go of a recruit this promising," Again, a slight sense of awe crept into Fleming's voice, "The amount of information he can retain?"

Bryce shook his head in exasperation and disbelief, "They're not gonna give him a choice?"

Fleming nodded, "He's in no matter what."

Bryce struggled, pushing down emotions both with training techniques and because he was searching for some way-- any way-- out of this mess. He looked around the office, desperate for some sort of argument that would appeal to the professor. Again, he recognized that pleading had entered his tone as he asked, "If he cheated on the exam, copied all the answers, it would invalidate the results, wouldn't it?" He tried not to be too hopeful.

"Yes," The professor agreed, "_If _that was the case, Bryce."

"But--" Bryce grit angrily, his last hope being extinguished.

"I'm sorry, Bryce," Fleming said, his voice actually apologetic, "I know that you and I have worked well together during your time here, but the Omaha Project is too important to let go of a candidate like this," Bryce scoffed visibly, leaning back in his chair, defeated, "Not only for the military community, but the scientific one as well."

"The favors I've done for you..." Bryce began again.

Fleming once again interrupted, "Are much appreciated, and will be repaid to you in the future. But this is one thing that is just too important, Bryce," Fleming paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then said with a sense of finality, "Chuck Bartowski is going to be recruited for the Omaha Project, Bryce. I'm sorry."

Bryce let a sad laugh escape his lips, "Yeah," He agreed, "Me, too."

* * *

_March 19, 2003_

If Chuck were to be honest with himself he would say that his time at college had changed him for the better. In high school he had been nervous pretty much all the time. While Ellie had been incredibly popular and he, as her little brother, had some of that popularity rub off on him, he never was quite comfortable with anyone except Morgan. The other guys in his class didn't understand their interests and the girls in his class seemed to be more concerned with the other guys in his class. For much of his high school years he just seemed to fidget awkwardly in some in-between space in which he was never entirely comfortable.

But for four years now, he had a spectacular friend in Bryce and an equally amazing girlfriend in Jill that changed him from awkward fidgeting into a guy who, if not necessarily confident, was at least comfortable with where he was in his life. His GPA hovered between 3.93 and 3.98 and no one wanted to call him a geek for it. He spent much of his time with his girlfriend playing MMORPGs and not only did she not complain, she actually played them, too. He had one great guy friend in Bryce who embraced his same hobbies and got along well with his girl. In addition, he had a frat house full of brothers who he loved to spend time with, sometimes playing video games, but sometimes doing normal college stuff like partying-- he was a master at beer pong-- or playing ultimate frisbee or volleyball.

So, yeah, with all of that, his life was going pretty well at the moment. He had a degree in engineering on the horizon, a relationship growing into something more serious, and friends as dedicated to him as he was to them.

Chuck walked cheerfully, whistling aimlessly to himself as he approached Professor Fleming's room. He wasn't entirely sure why the professor was asking for him, there had just been a message in his room from Bryce saying that Fleming wanted a meeting with him. They had just had their mid-term exam in that class and Chuck had thought the thing pretty easy, when they got their exams back, he had his beliefs confirmed; he had got 100% on the thing. He smiled as Fleming's receptionist, Stacey, came into view.

"Hey, Stacey," Chuck said cheerfully, knowing her from a class they had shared a few semesters ago.

"Hey, Chuck," She said, smiling, "Professor Fleming is ready to see you right away."

"Sounds good, thanks," Chuck replied, entering the Professor's office.

"Hello, Chuck," Fleming said pleasantly, indicating that he take the seat across from the professor's desk, "How are you?"

"Uhhh," Chuck uttered as he sat down, "I'm, uh, good. I'm good," He said smiling, "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine, Chuck," Fleming assured, leaning across his desk with his arms crossed, "I just wanted to talk with you about your performance in my class."

"Ohhhhkay?" Chuck asked, confused.

"As you're aware of," The professor continued, "You scored perfectly on the mid-term exam."

Chuck visibly relaxed, "Yeah, yeah," He laughed, "Well, I was up all night studying; It was a monster," A look of fright crept into Chuck's features as he immediately assured, "No offense!"

The professor only smiled, the action unnerving Chuck a bit as Fleming continued, "You even aced the last section, Encoded Images."

Chuck grinned nervously again, unsure of his professor's intention, "Tha-uh, yeah. Those were just kind of a shot in the dark."

Fleming smiled again, this time more genuinely and it had the effect of relaxing Chuck, "It's fantastic, actually. I've been giving this same exam for years and no one has showed a level of aptitude that you seem to have achieved."

"Oh, well," Chuck stuttered nervously, his inability to handle compliments showing itself, "Like I said, I was just kind of, you know.. Not guessing, but..." He flailed, looking for the word, "The answers I put just seemed right, I guess? I don't know."

"It's okay, Chuck," The professor assured, "That is, in a way, the nature of that portion of the exam. It's designed in such a way where those who don't have an aptitude for encoded images won't feel comfortable with their answers, while those who do will be able to answer correctly, but not necessarily understand _why_ they know those answers are correct."

"Yeah, well," Chuck verbally floundered again, "I guess that's a good way to describe it."

Fleming's affable expression suddenly went serious, and caused Chuck to stiffen in his seat, "Chuck, I want to tell you something that cannot leave this room."

Chuck blinked, smiling nervously and uncertainly, "Alriiiight," he drawled.

"You are aware, of course, of the Central Intelligence Agency, yes?" Fleming asked, his expression completely serious.

Despite that, Chuck's first reaction was to laugh, "Uh, the CIA? Or some other Central Intelligence Agency?" the younger man's amused smile slowly deteriorated as Fleming's expression remained stoic, "I mean, yes, I am aware of the CIA."

"I understand your reaction, Mr. Bartowski," Fleming said calmly, "Let me make this perfectly clear: All of what I am telling you is true, and one hundred percent confidential. In fact," Fleming paused, taking time to open a drawer and pull out a single document, along with a fountain pen, and push them across the desk towards Chuck, "For me to continue, I need you to sign this confidentiality agreement. It basically states that anything discussed in this room cannot be discussed outside of this room."

Shocked, Chuck looked down at the paper, the CIA letterhead and the long-applied signatures of Langston Graham, whom the letter noted was the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and Professor Fleming, who was described as Agency Recruitment Liaison for Stanford University, and a blank spot for Chuck's own signature. His eyes widened as he noted his descriptor was "Recruit." Unsure of what else to do, Chuck grabbed the writing utensil, muttering something inconsequential about "Fan-er, Fancy pen," before scrawling his signature along the allotted line.

"Thank you, Chuck," Fleming said politely, filing away the paper and putting it in a different drawer than the one from which it had come. As his eyes came up to meet Chuck's own, Chuck couldn't help but whisper a mantra to himself: _Don't freak out, don't freak out, don't freak out_. It wasn't really helping.

"As you no doubt read," Fleming began, "I am the CIA Recruitment Liaison for this University. While most of the classes I teach are merely normal classes, others, such as the one you are currently enrolled in, we use to discover those who we believe could do well working for the Agency," Fleming took a moment to pause and consider Chuck, who couldn't find the presence of mind to reply in any capacity, "Your test scores in my class, particularly your scores on Encoded Images, indicate to us potential success as a member of the CIA."

That statement seemed to loosen Chuck's tongue, as his eyes bugged out, "Uh, m-me?" He stammered, "You want _me_ to be a CIA agent?"

"Yes, Chuck," Fleming confirmed, "Specifically, we want you to be involved in a special project codenamed Omaha, where your ability to recognize and use encoded images will be examined and utilized."

Chuck took a deep, uncertain breath, "Ex-examined? Like, with needles?" At Fleming's odd, confused look of response Chuck continued, "I don't really like needles."

"Well, I'm not sure of the examination process," Fleming explained gamely, "But I believe it's more of an observational nature."

"Oh, okay," Chuck said softly, still obviously overwhelmed.

"Additionally, since the Omaha Project is primarily a military operation," Again, Chuck's eyes bugged, though Fleming seemed not to notice, "You would also be trained as an operative. The training would take one to two years, and would run simultaneous to your participation in the Omaha Project."

"Woah, woah," Chuck seemed to finally come out of his shocked state of inaction, "This is all happening _really_ fast. I just- I'm sorry, Professor Fleming. Are you asking me to be a _CIA Agent_? Like, a _spy_?" Chuck asked, trying to understand the situation.

"Yes, Chuck," Professor Fleming asserted, "That is exactly what I'm asking."

There was a long pause, as the Professor and his student simply stared at each other. The answer seemed to knock Chuck back into silence, and the Professor waited almost a full thirty seconds before reaching into another drawer of his desk and pulling out another sheet of paper.

"If you're agreeable," The professor began, pushing this sheet of paper across the table, "I have some paperwork that you would need to fill out. This would essentially be another nondisclosure agreement, one that would extend beyond this meeting and extend to any and all further communications you had with me and with anyone else within the Agency."

Fleming held onto the pen for a moment, his expression again serious, "I want you to understand, that this is not a document that would employ you in any way. This meeting is the first of what would be a series of interviews that would determine if you were physically and psychologically capable of becoming a member of the CIA. This is merely saying that, in the course of those interviews, you will maintain silence on these meetings."

Chuck looked at Fleming seriously, his mind finally seeming to kick into gear, "What about my sister? Or my girlfriend? They can't know?"

Fleming shook his head in the negative, placing the pen down on the desk, "No, Chuck. I'm sorry."

Chuck didn't reach out to take the writing utensil, instead he just alternated between staring at the sheet of paper and his professor. Finally he spoke, "I- I'm sorry, Professor Fleming. This is just a _lot_ to take in, you know? I just- Can I... Can I take like," Chuck laughed hopelessly, "A day to think about this? Or something?"

Fleming smiled wanly, "Of course, Chuck. Take the day, sleep on it."

A weight visibly removed itself from Chuck's shoulders, "Thank you, professor. Thank you," He said, getting up out of the chair.

"I appreciate you meeting with me, Chuck," Fleming said honestly, getting to his feet himself and extending Chuck his hand to shake.

"Thank you, Professor," Chuck said, taking it, "I- I'm flattered by your, or the CIA's interest." He laughed.

Fleming shook Chuck's hand firmly, maintaining his grip for a moment to give Chuck pause, "Remember, Chuck. Your country is calling you. There is a lot of good you can do. Protecting your friends. Protecting your family."

Chuck's startled reaction at being held there for a moment gave way to an uncharacteristically intense expression. It was as if he had, for the first time, considered the implications of working for the government in such a capacity, had considered the positive changes he could enact in the world as a spy.

"Right," Chuck said simply, his brow furrowed in focus, "Well, thank you, sir."

Fleming smiled gently, "I look forward to your answer, Chuck."

Chuck laughed, smiling, thinking that Fleming probably already knew his answer, "Yeah," He said, "Me, too."

* * *

**A/N: So, this is my first attempt at a multi-chapter Chuck fic. Technically. I mean, Left Unsaid is a two-shot and Per Second Second and Other People's Words are drabble collections, but this is my first attempt at a multi-chapter story in the Chuck universe.**

**I've seen a couple of fics that deal with the idea of Bryce not being able to remove Chuck from the CIA's watch list (notably, the excellent When Fates Impose from Frea O'Scanlin), but when considering the idea for myself, I figured that the nature of Fleming's tests at Stanford seemed to be intentionally searching for an Intersect and that, if Bryce did fail at getting Chuck out of the recruitment path, he would likely be forced very quickly to be involved with the Intersect project. So, that's what this fic is going to explore.**

**Some of the storyline aspects I'll look at here include Steven Bartowski reacting to his son being in the CIA and part of the Intersect Project, Jill and Chuck dating while simultaneously being recruits for opposing spy factions, and Bryce watching his best friend change into a spy. I've got plans for Sarah to make an entrance into this fic, but that's a ways off, and as much as I love Casey I don't have a way for him into my storyline yet (he HAS to be here at some point though, Respect the Casey, plz).**

**So, yeah. I just wanted to get all of that information out of the way. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Chuck vs the Simple Twist of Fate. I know I haven't been very good in responding to my reviews, but I promise to take the time out at the end of every chapter of this piece to thank each and every reviewer. It means a lot to me, and I appreciate all the positive feedback I've received from all of my other Chuck stories. Thanks! Hope to hear your feedback!**


	2. A Series of Sneaks

_May 19, 2003_

The meeting left a lot on Chuck's mind as he returned to his dorm. It wasn't until Professor Fleming's final assertion at the end of the meeting that he had started to think less about the _idea_ of being in the CIA and more about the _implications_ of being in the CIA. Throughout the meeting he had strictly thought about the idea of joining the CIA in terms of _what_ he would be doing-- He figured it wasn't really like a Bond movie, but it probably had some similarities, right?-- but Fleming's last statement had him thinking in terms of _why_ he would be doing it, which was an entirely different animal.

All of his life Chuck had been the one being protected. His mother would protect him from his father's apathy with an overbearing amount of sensitivity and attention. As a little kid he didn't think anything of it (as a little kid, you have nothing else to compare it to), but going into school he quickly realized he had to learn how to stand on his own, even if he never actually accomplished that goal.

Once their mom left, Ellie was the one protecting him, from bullies at school, from his own misery, from turning too far into himself. Then, when their dad left (he had promised pancakes for breakfast the night before and while it wasn't unusual for him to break his promise, it was unusual for him to disappear and never come back) Ellie was protecting him again, and it felt like the same routine all over again. Then Ellie had to leave for college, leaving Chuck living with Morgan, falling into nights of video games and pointless debate that never went anywhere too personal.

His lone accomplishment, the one thing he could point to as something he had done on his own, was getting good enough grades to not only get into Stanford, but to get an academic full-ride. Finally it seemed those massive extra-curricular projects he had taken on in his computer classes were more than just the product of a kid trying to forget he had no family. But even when he had arrived at Stanford, he quickly found Bryce protecting him from having his own self-esteem issues and Jill protecting him from falling too far into his own world.

So the idea that _he_ could be the one protecting Morgan, protecting Ellie, protecting Jill, protecting even Bryce (he doubted Bryce needed protecting, but it was a nice thought to have), reached to a part of him that had long been dormant, his ego. Perhaps ego was too strong a term, more accurately it reached a part of him that wanted a reason to have an ego. It spoke to a part of him that wanted to pay everyone in his life back for the years that they had spent guarding him from himself, from the outside world, from reality.

He was smiling a grim, determined smile when he made opened the door to his room. Bryce was sitting on the farthest bed, the way his head snapped up to look at Chuck intensely as soon as Chuck had opened the door indicating that he had just a moment before been deep in thought and that his eyes were previously probably focused on the floor.

"Hey Chuck," Bryce said evenly, but with a cold edge that Chuck didn't recognize.

Bryce didn't know what he expected to see when Chuck entered the room. Did he expect a strut to Chuck's gait? Did he expect him to walk in wearing a new, CIA-issued tuxedo, complete with black bow tie? Did he expect a complete CIA transformation int he span of a single, fifteen-minute initial meeting? He chastised whatever faulty thought process he had running through his head for the past two days.

He had spent much of the time between his meeting with Fleming and Chuck's meeting with Fleming planning this moment meticulously. The scenario changed each time. Sometimes he and Chuck would verbally attack each other and sometimes he would be able to talk Chuck down and sometimes he wouldn't, but each time Chuck walked through the door a different person. Usually, he would already have a gun, and seeing him walk through now, looking exactly like Chuck did the day before a test, he shook his head quietly to himself.

"H-- Hey, Bryce," Chuck said, "Don't you usually have class now?"

If Chuck had been anyone else, Bryce would have immediately suspected that his friend just wanted him to leave, but Chuck's earnest concern shown through and kind of broke Bryce's heart. He wondered-- wondered idly, bitterly-- how long it would take for that earnestness to leave Chuck.

"It's fine. Just a lecture today, and I have over a one hundred percent in that class," Bryce tried to say easily, but couldn't keep the nervous uncertainty from creeping into his voice. That's the way he always was around Chuck. It didn't matter how practiced you were, his honesty could break through the most meticulously crafted CIA training in the world.

"Well, what's up, buddy?" Chuck asked, the concern not so much seeping as it was pouring into his tone.

Bryce almost laughed. Leave it to Chuck to diffuse your anger before he even realized that you were angry, "I know, Chuck," was all Bryce could say, his voice unwillingly gravelly.

Chuck stiffened almost imperceptibly, but Bryce's training had long ago showed him how to notice such subtle body language as if it was as obvious as a full smile, "Know what, Bryce?"

"What you talked about with Professor Fleming," Bryce said simply, his voice gaining more confidence.

"Bryce," Chuck tried and failed to laugh convincingly, going over to clean up his desk, obviously trying to act casual, "He just wanted to let me know how impressed he was by me acing the midterm."

"No," Bryce said quietly, his eyes leaving Chuck's and looking down at the floor, "That's not all he wanted."

"Okay," Chuck relented, shutting a few notebooks in one of his drawers and turning to Bryce, but his face this time seemed genuinely easy, "He might have made me a job offer," Bryce blinked in surprise at the easy, convincing nature of Chuck's misinformation. It was both intentionally honest and intentionally inconspicuous, and, despite himself, Bryce was kind of impressed.

"Chuck," Bryce stated firmly, and figuring he was just best off playing all his cards, "I _know_," He lowered his head a bit, to try to make sure Chuck understood, but after a moment decided not to let implications clouds the implication, "I'm a CIA trainee."

Chuck's eyes went wide and a huge smile graced his features and, again, Bryce almost had to laugh and his emotions surged back and forth between goofily happy and tragically morose as Chuck excitedly asked, "Really? You, too! Alright!" He held his hand up for a high five and, against his better judgment, Bryce laughed, smiled, and returned the gesture. Though he had been recruited into the CIA today, even though Chuck's life had been irrevocably changed, he was still Chuck Bartowski.

"You agreed, then?" Bryce asked, the question pulling the ends of his smile down into a more neutral expression.

"Well," Chuck seemed to hesitate, and Bryce's heart involuntarily jumped in possibility, "No," Chuck admitted, seemingly abashed, "Not exactly," He looked at Bryce as if he didn't want to disappoint his friend, "I said I needed a day to think about it."

Bryce only just stopped the complete and utter sense of relief that flowed through him to show. His friend, on the other hand, looked as though he was vaguely ashamed of not accepting the offer immediately.

"Chuck," Bryce began gently, not entirely sure of how to broach the topic, but deciding to go ahead with it anyway, "I think you should say no."

"What?" Chuck asked, confused, "Why?"

Somehow, Bryce had never thought of an answer to that particular question. Again, the scenarios that he had run through in his head had been more complex and less reasonable than Chuck actually was. Truthfully, Bryce had assumed Chuck would have already taken the job and that he'd have to convince him to rescind his agreement. He hadn't been counting on Chuck needing a day to sleep on it (How had he not seen that? Chuck took two weeks to decide on his schedule for each semester) and he hadn't counted on Chuck being so... Internally, Bryce shook his head. He hadn't counted on Chuck being so _Chuck_.

"Because," Bryce said, trying to marshal an effective argument in his head, "I think that," He uncharacteristically floundered. Unable to find an intelligent way to word it, Bryce sighed, "Chuck, I just think it's a bad idea."

Chuck, again, looked confused. He sat down on the bed across from Bryce and made eye contact with his friend, "Why, buddy? I mean, do you think I can't do it?" Far from being hurt, Chuck seemed to accept the idea of failure pretty readily, and for the what seemed like the hundredth time in the short conversation, Bryce felt his heart kind of break.

"No, Chuck," Bryce shook his head, unable to meet Chuck's eyes, "I'm kind of afraid that you _can_," Bryce said with an honesty that, at this point in his training, seemed exceedingly difficult.

"Wouldn't..." Chuck trailed off uncertainly, "I mean, wouldn't it be a good thing if I could, Bryce?" Chuck let a small smile stretch across his face, "I mean, c'mon buddy. You and me. Saving the world," There was a short silence, long enough for an flicker of uncertainty to flash across Bryce's face, "I--" Chuck added, shrugging awkwardly, "I think that'd be pretty cool."

Bryce smiled unwillingly, "You're right," he acquiesced, "That would be cool."

Chuck's smile grew to full wattage for a moment, before Bryce continued with the word, "But," and the smile dimmed again, "I just..." Bryce trailed off, searching for words, "Chuck, I'm looking out for you."

"I know," Chuck allowed, and again he surprised Bryce. Given the same circumstances, but reversed roles, Bryce would have felt bitter with Chuck telling him, but not justifying the idea that, he was looking out for him. But Chuck accepted it as a fact, because he trusted his friends so intensely, "I just think--"

But Bryce cut him off, "Chuck, the fact that you're willing to accept that I'm looking out for you is the _reason_ I don't want you to be involved," Chuck frowned, obviously not understanding, and Bryce pressed on, "If you do this, if you join the CIA," Bryce drew a deep breath, "Their first goal will be eliminating that kind of trust. They'll--"

Chuck seemed to feel as though it was his turn to interrupt, "Buddy," Chuck said gently, and the tone surprised Bryce just as much as Chuck had been surprising him throughout the conversation, "I get that. I thought about that."

"Then, why are you considering it?" Bryce asked, perplexed.

Chuck shrugged, his normally affable attitude disappearing into the ether, "For the past few months I've been thinking about my future, you know?" Chuck looked up to catch his friend's gaze, "And I figured I'd be getting a job at some software company. Then, if I got lucky, I'd work my way up into a primary content developer or eventually I'd own my own, right?"

Bryce nodded, encouraging Chuck to continue.

The deep breath Chuck exhaled seemed to come with a weight that Bryce had never seen on his friend, "And that sounds..." Chuck trailed off, seemingly searching for an adequate word before settling on, "Fine," and continuing with, "But I want more than that. I look into my future and I see a guy stuck behind a desk, staring at a computer screen and..."

Chuck sighed heavily, "I've been doing that my whole life, you know?" He asked plaintively. "And now someone is telling me they think I can help protect the world?"

"It's not that simple, Chuck," Bryce said quietly, but forcefully.

"Why'd you say yes, then, Bryce?" Chuck asked, his patience finally wearing thin.

Bryce felt his body stiffen, and his retort stop short. He paused to think on the question for a few minutes before answering, "To protect people. To help make the world a better place," At the realization, Bryce sighed, but smiled at the same time, "I'm not going to talk you out of it, am I?"

Chuck smiled back, "C'mon. We'll be like 007 and 006 at the beginning of _Goldeneye_."

Bryce put on an exaggerated frown, "Didn't 006 gas 007 in that scene?" He asked, knowing full well.

"Semantics," Chuck said easily, his grin again at full size.

It was hard to look at Chuck's smile without wanting to smile back, Bryce reflected. It was such an honest, unabashed expression of emotion. But Bryce's large returning smile faded as he wondered just how long it would be before he'd never see that smile again.

* * *

_May 19, 2003_

Jill Roberts was used to being pulled in different directions. She had grown up in the suburbs of Los Angeles to a well-off family and, while her parents were very encouraging and understanding, it was obvious at a young age that they had no idea what to do with a child as intelligent as she was. By age twelve she no longer needed their help with her schoolwork and by thirteen she was wisely independent. Jill could sense the helpless looks they felt when they asked her if she needed advice or help on anything and Jill was able to say no and be completely right.

So, when she was fifteen, she started going to them to ask their advice and get their opinions regardless of the fact that she didn't need it. Regardless of the fact that they didn't very often completely understand her problems half as well as Jill herself did. Jill knew her parents needed the ability to give out advice to their only daughter, and Jill figured sitting and listening to her parents for a few hours a day was worth seeing their relationship grow and improve.

She had known "Uncle" Bernie for years, and he had been the first one to notice Jill's increased aptitude for, well, just about everything. He gave her opportunities to test her intelligence her parents couldn't provide. He gave her brainteasers to figure out and simple codes to decipher. For years, Jill had thought it was just good fun, but a few months ago her family had thrown a preemptive graduation party, months before she actually graduated because it was Bernie's last month in the area for the next year or so; Bernie had told Jill's father that it was because his job was taking him out of the area for the next six to eight months on a contract.

Which, Jill reflected in her dorm, had been true. Fulcrum needed Bernie and his team in Russia for an assignment. But the entire reason Bernie had asked for the family to throw the early graduation party wasn't just to see his favorite "niece." It was to tell her about Fulcrum. Those brainteasers and early forays into code breaking? He admitted they were a form of aptitude testing usually used on college-aged possible recruits, tests she had been acing in eighth grade.

Only a few years ago, Bernie told her, the United States had been attacked by a terrorist group in a violent and disgusting manner. But now, only a few years later, the country was going in the wrong direction, using the Patriot Act to violate the rights of its own citizens, fabricating evidence to attack independent countries, conducting horrible acts of torture on people who had no connections to any illegal activity. The only solution, Bernie had convinced her, was Fulcrum. They were working to turn the government over, place it in the hands of politicians aligned with their (much more benevolent, he assured) goals.

She wasn't open about her political beliefs, but Bernie seemed to know, seemed to sense her stiffening when another speech was played on television or another piece of invasive legislation was passed. Jill was glad that he seemed to understand her better than her parents ever had. She had felt pulled between her own intelligence and her relationship with them, but Fulcrum allowed her an outlet and she didn't have to choose anymore. Now, however, the training she had been undergoing had been placing another choice on her. The choice between changing the world and her relationship with Chuck.

Her door opened quietly and the object of her thoughts entered the room, "Babe?" Chuck asked, and she heard the door to her room shut quietly as he came over to give her a kiss on the cheek-- she had been working on her computer.

"Hey, you," Jill smiled. It was impossible no to smile at Chuck, and it made the pull she felt between the two aspects of her life even stronger, "How was the meeting with Professor Fleming?"

Chuck shrugged awkwardly, which her training would have taught her to be suspicious of, but Chuck was awkward in almost all of his movements (except, she hid a coy smile, _those_ movements), so she didn't think much of it.

"It was fine," he said noncommittally, sitting down on her bed.

Jill turned from her computer to give her boyfriend a confused grin. Chuck seemed adorably out of sorts, an unfocused expression on his face as he stared out her window onto the lawn where members of the frat house across the street were playing bags on the porch, "Just fine?" She asked, confused, "What did he even want to talk to you about?"

"Oh," Chuck said aimlessly then, making eye contact with her again, his face seemed to light up a bit, "Oh! Yeah! Sorry, I zoned for a second there. He wanted to talk to me about a job."

"Really?" Jill asked excitedly. She had no worries about Chuck being able to get a job after graduation (graduating with honors from a University like Stanford gave you a certain amount of security in such a situation) but having something like a sure thing was still a cause for celebration. She got up out of her chair to sit straddle his legs and sit on his lap, looking at his wide smile, "That's great, baby. What did he say about it?"

"Not much," Chuck admitted, his eyes gazing to the side and then back to her. She pursed her lips in annoyance at her boyfriend's unusual reticence. He smiled at the expression on her face and continued, "I just mean, he didn't talk about the details, really. It sounded kind of like I'd be a sort of research assistant for him," Chuck said, improvising wildly but smartly, "Like, helping him out with looking further into the research he did for his class."

Chuck did his best to keep himself from stiffening at the lie, regardless of the modicum of truth contained within. He felt bad being dishonest with anyone, much less someone he honestly thought he could spend the rest of his life with. At the same time, the opportunity that he had before him, this opportunity that had unexpectedly fallen into his lap, was something he wanted to protect.

"Wow," Jill said, smiling, "My boyfriend, the academic. And here I thought you were going to be a code monkey for some place like Roark Industries."

"Psh," Chuck faked a scoff, "RI is too small time for me," He said, bringing his mouth up to capture Jill's, sharing a soft, sweet kiss.

"Too true," Jill agreed, kssing him again. When she was with Chuck, she could ignore the push and pull of the different aspects of her life, could ignore Fulcrum, could ignore her counter-intelligence training and code-breaking training that she was undergoing. When they were together, they were just Chuck and Jill, in a life that was more than enough for her, "Did you tell Ellie yet?"

"Called her on the way over here," Chuck confirmed, "I don't _think_ her squeals woke up the entire neighborhood, but it was close."

Jill laughed, kissing Chuck once more just to savor the feel of his lips in her own. His sense of humor, understated and kind of sarcastic but still warm and intelligent, was one of her favorite things about him, "I _thought_ I heard something," Jill said, cocking her head to the side as she pretended to think, "I just assumed it was a dog whistle."

Chuck smiled back at her, running his fingers under the hem of her shirt so they came to rest on the small of her back. The skin on skin contact put a distracted, glazed smile on her features, and she ran her hands from the side of his head to the back of his neck, lightly teasing the hairline of his neck; it was one of his favorite spots.

"Miss Roberts," Chuck purred, "Are you trying to seduce me?"

Jill leaned over, flicking the light switch to bathe the room in darkness, and replied, "Absolutely, Mister Bartowski."

She felt more than saw his smile as she leaned her weight forward and pushed him down onto the bed. And Chuck felt more than saw her seductive gaze. Unknowingly, each came to the same conclusion: the push and pull of their new, separate lives could wait for an evening.

* * *

**A/N: Hey all. So here is chapter two and, where chapter one introduced the concept of the story, here I've started to get into the personal, character conflict that'll be going on: Bryce both happy and upset about Chuck working for the CIA, Jill and Chuck both having the same problems in their relationship, but also having the problem of working on opposite sides. I was happy for all the positive feedback I got for the first chapter, and I hope this one lived up to your expectations. Now I promised personal review replies, so HEYHERETHEYARE:**

**Zipfe: Some Carina? Well, like Casey, she is from a different agency, so I'm not entirely sure how I WOULD work her into the story. But, again like Casey, I definitely WANT to. Which means I will eventually, basically. Though no telling WHEN. Patience? Thanks for reviewing!**

**:): It WOULD be cool to partner them together, but remember, Sarah has been doing training since she was 18, so she has three years of training on Bryce and four on Chuck. Unlikely that they would train together, you know? Don't worry, I have a good idea of how I'm going to get Sarah involved. Thanks for the review!**

**Anonomus: I don't have an ending for this, really (oh God what a thing to admit) but I do plan on it being a fairly long story. I mean, you have to if you want the emotional journey of the characters to mean anything, you know? Thanks for the review!**

**Taliesinjoe: Well, I think with Chuck in CIA, he'll be Bryce's partner. Their history of working well together and pre-existing relationship and similar training schedule, compared to Sarah's, will dictate that. Like I said, I have ideas for Sarah, I just need to get to them! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Joe: I'm glad you enjoy my writing style. Chuck's training isn't going to go like 3.01's training. Believe me. At 22 you're much more malleable than at 28, and Chuck will have Bryce to help him out. And, yes, you gotta have Charah in a Chuck fic, you know? Their interaction is just too wonderful. Thanks for the review!**

**Noctaval: Bryce is probably my favorite guest character in Chuck, because he's so important to the whole show's mythology, so I like looking into his thought process and character. Don't worry, Bryce/Chuck spy-buddy interaction is what inspired this fic! (Specifically, my own forays into their relationship in my Chuck Me Challenge, Per Second Second). Glad you enjoyed it and thanks for reviewing!**

**TeamBartowski: I'm glad you liked it (both of you liked it?). I hope chapter two lived up to your expectations. Thanks for the review!**

**Stayinthecar: First of all, great username. Second of all, I'm glad you have enjoyed my take on this AU. I've been kind of afraid that it's too much like Wepdiggy's Chuck vs the College Years or Frea's What Fates Impose. I hope I stay enough in my own world that it's not like a theft of those great stories! Thanks for reviewing.**

**Ozlex: I've got some ideas up my sleeve for training, and I'm definitely looking forward to writing those chapters, though they will probably be more background for the emotional changes in our characters rather than, you know, action for action's sake. Thanks for the review!**

**DanaPAH: Hopping up and down! You overestimate me. I agree that Bryce is going to be surprised by Chuck in the spy world, but I think Chuck will be surprised by Chuck in the spy world, too. In a way, I'm kind of appropriating Sarah's feelings about Chuck in S3 to Bryce in this story, though with the long history necessary for him to more intimately understand the push and pull going on in Chuck as he changes from normal dude to spy. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Fire From Above: Glad you enjoyed the beginning, hope this satisfied your thirst! Thanks for the review!**

**Lord of All: Yeah, the Intersect is about five years from being online, so he'll definitely be getting spy training and dramatics first (Bryce and Chuck messin' up bad guys! Sarah and Chuck meeting! Jill and Chuck trying to survive working for opposing agencies! Oh noes!) and then the Intersect being uploaded. But Chuck will also be involved with the Intersect's creation (it's why he was recruited, after all) and that'll throw ol' Papa Bartowski into the mix here. Glad you enjoyed the start! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Jinxed97: I'm happy you liked the first chapter and hope you enjoyed chapter two just as much. Thanks for the review!**


	3. I Am A Bird Now

_May 23, 2003_

Chuck stared at the camera.

The camera stared back.

A few days ago, Chuck had gone in to Fleming's office to sign the letter of approval, saying that he was willing to cooperate with the CIA testing procedures and submit himself for CIA recruitment. During the course of that brief meeting, Fleming had made a point to indicate where the camera was that would be taping his interactions within Fleming's office. The professor notified Chuck that the reason for this was because his interviews would become part of a training tool for a class in interrogation, where students would identify emotions from the facial expressions of a questioned detainee. Chuck understood the benefit of it and, during the course of their short meeting a few days ago, it hadn't seemed like anything to worry about.

But now, on the day of his second official interview with Fleming, he just couldn't stop staring at the damn thing. He couldn't help but be a bit creeped out at the idea of someone he didn't know watching his every move and, not only that, his facial tics and emotional responses dissected by random people for generations to come. It wasn't really the privacy that bothered him, more the awkwardness. Though Fleming assured Chuck that his face would be digitally adjusted to the point that he wouldn't be recognized, it still felt weird. For the next ten years he knew that the thought would occasionally crop up that it was very possible that one out of every hundred thousand people he saw had at one point dissected his facial expressions.

"Chuck?" Fleming's question seemed to rattle the silent air, and it startled Chuck out of his camera-obsessed reverie. He scoffed at himself; that was a no sort of first impression to make for a potential audience.

"Yeah? Uh, yes, professor?" Chuck asked, trying to make up for the overly casual tone he had used to begin with an overly professional tone. Fleming smiled at him, and the simple gesture relaxed him a bit.

"Nothing to worry about, Chuck, this is just going to be a rather standard personality test," At Chuck's incredulous glance, Fleming continued, "It's used to uncover any red flags in regards to your temperament and attitude," The professor said it easily, as if Chuck had nothing to worry about, and leaned back from his desk, "Your proctor, an Agent Feldon, will provide you with a secure computer that you will use to take the test. The results will be immediately run through the CIA's database to flag any worrisome answers, which Agent Feldon will then ask you about."

"I get my hands on a CIA-issue laptop?" That was definitely the bit of information that most interested Chuck.

Knowing his student, Fleming allowed himself a brief grin, "Work purposes only, Trainee Bartowski."

"Right," Chuck said, trying to put on an air of seriousness. It seemed staged for a moment but, after a moment, the weight and gravity of the situation seemed to pull down on the young man, and his eyes went from amusingly chastises to heavy and dull, "Right," Chuck repeated, with more weight than before.

The serious expression was probably a normal one for agents to affect, and it seemed strangely serendipitous that it was at that moment that Agent Feldon chose to enter Fleming's office. Not that the Agent looked at Chuck in that moment, but Chuck just kind of felt it was appropriate.

Looking at him, Felton didn't look much like a CIA agent at the moment, but Chuck supposed that was the point. Dressed in a pair of slacks and a patterned button up, his brown leather briefcase became inconspicuous with his general appearance. He smiled amiably but unconvincingly at Fleming, offering his hand and acknowledging the man with a simple, "Professor," before turning to Chuck and offering the hand again, "And you must be Mr. Bartowski."

"Uh, yes, yes," Chuck brought himself to his feet hastily, unnecessarily wiping his hands on his pants before taking the older man's hand, "That's me," He added for no real reason. His eyes shot down to the briefcase as if he could see through the leather to the awe-inspiring technology that was sure to be contained within.

The Agent noticed his gaze and grinned, "Fleming said you were kind of a tech head," Feldon said, indicating the professor with a nod of his head and the briefcase with a slap of his free hand, "You want to take a look."

Feldon had to smile at the obviously restrained excitement of the kid. Many CIA recruits were like that upon their initial examinations, and those obvious personalities were great to see before they were manipulated and molded into their identities in the spy life. That's not to say that the personalities they had before had disappeared entirely, just that they were run through the wringer until they could all fit in the same generic mold. Some personalities didn't fill all the cracks of that mold and still others overflowed, but it was nice to see them before they were pushed square peg/round hole-style into the lives their destinies were hurtling them towards.

"Yeah!" Chuck responded to the question, and Feldon laughed, removing the next generation laptop from his bag. The iconic Roark Industries tree marked the top of the lid, and the translucent nature of the casing allowed a look inside the machine. The translucence also had the added benefit of providing a natural coolant, and allowed the machine to run more quietly and effectively than it had a right to, given its technological superiority.

"Oh, wow," Chuck marveled as Feldon sat it down at Fleming's desk in front of the recruit, "This is, if you don't mind me saying, an amazing piece of machinery."

"Yeah?" Feldon asked coyly, "Look a little closer."

Chuck looked up at the older agent, frowning a bit, before he took a closer look at the hardware that he could see inside the machine. It took him a few moments-- far fewer moments than most recruits he played this game with, Feldon noted-- but Chuck quickly found what Feldon was referring to, "There's no modem or network card?" Chuck asked, incredulous.

"No, sir," Feldon said, smiling at Fleming as they both silently acknowledged just how quickly the recruit had picked up on that bit of information.

"That's why the proctor is here in person, Chuck," Fleming provided, "Though all the computer is going to be used for is for the input and reading of your responses, these particular models are not equipped to interact with the Internet in any way," Fleming leaned back again in his chair, "Keeping them off the grid provides us with security, not only around your answers, but also to the locations where this machinery is housed."

"Don't bore the kid with the details," Feldon laughed congenially.

"No, no," Chuck protested, "That's actually really interesting," Here Chuck leaned in closer to both men, his expression curious, "Did you ever think of placing a dummy modem in there that would reroute hacking attempts to a emergency server that would identify the IP address of the attack?"

There was an awkward silence as both older men looked at Chuck, startled. Chuck looked up at both men, his expression growing in discomfort, "Yeah? Yeah, you probably already thought of that," he rambled, "I'll shut up now."

"No, no," Feldon was the first to recover, "I think both Professor Fleming and I were just impressed with your quick thinking. We hadn't given that an attempt, but I'll be sure to pass your suggestion on up."

"Re-- Really?" Chuck asked, smiling in pride.

"Really, Mr. Bartowski," Feldon confirmed, "Now, Fleming, you need to exit the room for test protocol," The agent gestured out the door and Fleming began getting out of his seat. Feldon turned towards the young recruit, "Chuck, I'll be on the other side of the room, just to ensure that you don't do anything to the system or the machine itself."

"It's really much ado about nothing, Chuck," Fleming assured as he passed the younger man on his exit, "Don't worry about it."

"He's right," Feldon confirmed, "Your behavioral record and grades make this essentially a formality," He said reassuringly, "This is all just dictated protocol."

"Okay," Chuck said simply, still feeling a bit overwhelmed despite the reassurance of the other men. He took a deep breath as Fleming shut the door behind him as he left, leaving Feldon and Chuck alone in the room together.

"Now, the test itself is very simple," Feldon explained, opening the computer up, "It's going to ask you some questions, and you're going to have the same five responses available for every question: Strongly agree, agree, disagree, strongly disagree, and ambivalent."

"Really?" Chuck laughed, "Like if you were trying to get a job at a BuyMore or something?"

Feldon laughed as well, "Essentially. Though no questions about your attitudes on shoplifting."

"Well," Chuck said facetiously, "Thank God for small favors, huh?"

Feldon threw the recruit a wry grin, booting up the program that would give Chuck the necessary questions, "Well, we've wasted too much blabbering on. Time to see if you're psychotic."

Chuck faked an alarmed glance, "You mean I can't be psychotic?"

"Oh no," Feldon assured, "It's a requirement."

Chuck laughed, not quite understanding just how true that statement was.

* * *

The test had seemed simple enough, and once finished with it Chuck had indicated to Feldon that he was done with a quick hand gesture. Feldon had remained disconcertingly quiet throughout the course of the actual examination after being surprisingly inviting for a CIA agent, but again warmed up once the test was over, giving chuck an amiable grin before grabbing the computer and explaining that it would take a few hours for the program to chart his responses and produce an illustrative picture of Chuck's personality.

Once Feldon had left, Chuck expected Fleming to reenter the room, but was surprised when he was left alone in the office and his mind once again returned to the thought of the camera. Something about its very presence was unnerving to him. He thought it was the idea of it being used for training purposes but, the more he thought about it, the more some other feeling crept up into his gut, an instinct that there was more behind that camera than what it seemed.

He stared it it intently, as if he could discern the puppet master pulling the camera's strings from simply staring at where he knew the electronic eye to be. After the eye didn't do anything too suspicious, like call in stormtroopers or warp him into a computer where he would be forced to race speeder bikes, Chuck relaxed.

He wasn't exactly _nervous_, as the questions were fairly straight forward ("You often have thoughts of killing yourself." Strongly disagree. "You have a strong sense of justice." Strongly agree.), but he still felt vaguely on edge; as if he knew he had just aced a job interview, but was still anxious in waiting for the call to actually receive the position. He supposed, in a way, that scenario wasn't even an analogy, rather it was an intentional oversimplification of his current state.

Because of that anxiety, he did jump a bit when the door slammed behind him and Feldon entered the room once again. He acknowledged Chuck with a tight smile as he entered the room, and Chuck gave one uncertainly back.

"As predicted," Feldon said, settling himself down at Fleming's desk and opening the laptop in front of him, "You had nothing to worry about. Just, as standard practice, we have a few things we need to go over."

"Okay," Chuck replied, fidgeting in his seat as a way to use some of the energy he had built up sitting there and waiting.

"When scoring these tests," Feldon explained with the ease of a man who had given the same speech hundreds of times before, "We classify the answers into six types. Depending on your responses, those classifications may or may not get flagged for further questioning or may preclude you from CIA service," At Chuck's intake of breath, Feldon looked up, "You've got nothing to worry about on that front, Mr. Bartowski."

"Good," Chuck said, trying and failing to express confidence with his statement, "Good," he added a second time unnecessarily.

"What happens with these flags," Feldon continued, attempting to use a smile to relax the recruit, "Is that the categories will be marked with a red flag, which means that category probably interferes with their day-to-day life on a regular and counterproductive basis. An orange flag means that the topic is worrisome, but conquerable, and usually leads to professional therapy on the topic during training, which must be completed before service can begin. A yellow flag simply means that the issues should be brought to your attention, and self-awareness of the issue will more than likely allow you to handle the issue on your own."

"Makes sense," Chuck mused at the gap in conversation.

"No red flags," Feldon stated simply, "No orange flags, but one yellow flag," Chuck's face fell imperceptibly, "Eh, don't worry about it. All new recruits have at least one yellow flag," The casual fact worked as intended, and Chuck perked up once again.

"Your yellow flag was in the self-image category," Feldon explained, "Your opinion of yourself as a whole was slightly below what we would expect and desire from a candidate with such high levels of esteem in your actual skill sets."

"Okay?" Chuck turned the word into a question.

"Basically," Feldon said, relaxing into the chair once more, "You believe you're good at all the things you do, but you seem not to believe that you, yourself, are that good. You don't have _low_ self-esteem, just lower than your confidence in your abilities would suggest."

"Oh," Chuck said, the more simplified version of the explanation making more sense, "Well, I understand that. I always kind of have help with the stuff I do, you know?" He laughed, as if the idea that he was responsible for his accomplishments was silly, "Like, Bryce helps me with programming something, or Jill double checks my math. So, I mean, I know I do things well, but I can't really take all the credit for it."

"Admirable selflessness, Mr. Bartowski," Feldon said, giving the recruit a nod of respect, "But I've looked over your school work, your papers, your extracurriculars, and all of them unmistakably bear your own personal mark," He leaned forward, smiling, "Take the credit every once in awhile, Chuck. You deserve it."

Chuck smiled, that unfamiliar feeling of pride creeping up once again, "Thank you, sir," he said, politely.

"Really, with that out of the way, all of this looks to be in order," Feldon said with certainty, clapping his hands together as he lifted himself out of Fleming's chair, "Your third interview will be at the Farm in Virginia. They'll be testing your current physical aptitude and, from that, then devising a training regimen for you."

Chuck, too got up from his chair, a hesitant look on his face, "Uh, will, uh-- Is it possible to _fail_ the physical examination?"

Feldon laughed, though Chuck thought it inappropriate due to the seriousness of his query, "Don't worry, Chuck. Save for a variety of health problems that you don't suffer from, or serious nutritional issues, you training regimen will be more than enough to make you physically capable."

Chuck smiled at the agent, still not completely believing his words. At Chuck's reluctance, Feldon continued, "You played Little League, right?" At Chuck's surprised expression the agent admitted, "It's in your record. You had a good batting average and an outstanding number of stolen bases," Feldon came around the desk, placing a reassuring arm on Chuck's shoulder, "Like with the mental stuff, you're more capable than you think you are. Remember that."

At the reassurance, Chuck's smile went from wan and doubting to vaguely satisfied, "Tha-- Thank you," He managed to get out.

Feldon smiled, though there was something a bit off behind it that even his agency training couldn't hide. Chuck, though, didn't seem to notice. It was a lack of warmth as he realized just how often he had given these speeches to new recruits that were unsure about their own abilities in the agency. Or given hard-nosed speeches intended to knock cocky new recruits down from their pedestal. Or given impassioned speeches about the greater good to new recruits suddenly doubting their country's methods or ideals.

He was good at what he did, telling these new recruits the things they wanted to hear, both because he could take on all of those roles with equal believability and because he actually felt all of those roles. He truly felt that some trainees were too cocky and needed a dose of reality, he truly felt like the government, despite its occasional problems, was always fighting to make this country a better place, and he truly felt that a canvas like Chuck Bartowski could one day develop the skills necessary to be a top-flight CIA agent.

The kid may have been too earnest for his own good, and too open around people trained to find weaknesses, but training would harden those soft edges, make angles where curves had once been in both the literal and figurative sense. That personality, of course, wouldn't go completely away and Feldon still liked being able to see it, but he always felt a bit morose in realizing that these moments were more than likely the last times he would see these same recruits as people and not as agents.

He took Chuck's hand forcefully, giving a solid handshake and receiving a surprisingly strong one in return, "You'll be shipping out next Friday with Trainee Larkin, who also has some physical training that he needs to undergo at the Farm."

"Ah, wha-- Um, what should I tell my girlfriend?" Chuck said after releasing the agent's hand.

Feldon smiled, "Consider it a first assignment. You and Larkin should come up with a plausible cover story that will allay any suspicions your significant other may have," Slipping back into a more official mode of conduct, Feldon stiffened his back and spoke clearly, "Larkin will report the cover story to the proper channels, and we will ensure that if she makes any effort to corroborate the story through independent sources that they will confirm."

"Uh, wow," Chuck said simply, "Okay. That's, um, that's pretty complicated for a weekend with my best friend."

Feldon only just held back an agreeing sigh, "You get used to it," He said simply.

"The complications or the lying?" Chuck asked, his face somewhere between genuinely curious and exasperated.

"Both," Was Feldon's guileless reply.

The short silence that followed that pronouncement was telling, as both men simply looked at each other, each understanding that the honesty of that statement had shifted a dynamic in the room. Feldon excused himself, thanked Chuck for his time, and left. Alone in that office one more time, he almost laughed as his thoughts immediately turned towards the stupid camera behind Fleming's desk. As opposed to over-thinking the device, Chuck merely focused his gaze on where the camera was supposed to be.

Chuck stared at the camera.

The camera stared back.

In a darkened room somewhere hundreds of miles away, someone who was not supposed to be viewing the feed from that camera was. He wasn't a member of the United States government, nor a member of an anti-government faction. He had, however, once worked extensively on a project known as the Intersect, an attempt to gather data from all of America's intelligence agencies into one system, and had then again worked on an experimental team working under the heading of the Omaha Project, which was attempting to find a way to encode the data.

Once his research had been used to test the encoding process on humans and resulted in deaths, he shuttered himself away from everyone, especially those he cared about, in the hopes that they would never become associated with the horrendous consequences that being involved with the Omaha Project would reap. It seemed to him, as he watched the dark-haired figure stare at him with a quiet, drained intensity, that he had unequivocally failed.

Orion, the man no one knew as Stephen Bartowski, buried his head in his hands in frustration.

* * *

**A/N: Oh hey it's chapter three! I kind of wanted to do the mental AND physical testing in this chapter, but the length got away from me. Also I didn't plan to introduce Stephen Bartowski in this chapter, but as soon as I wrote the first two lines (without thinking about it in terms of Orion) I realized he had to be the way to end it. I also realize that I am going really really slow with the storytelling, but I suppose that's my prerogative as the author of this piece. Hopefully the deeper characterization and exploration of what goes in to recruiting someone for the CIA is interesting to you guys. If not, well, next chapter has Chuck interacting with Jill and Bryce in fun ways (not like that, you sickos). Hope you stick around! ONTOTHEREVIEWS**

**shamster600: Yeah, Jill is portrayed in fanfiction kind of weirdly (well, any alternative LI to Chuck and Sarah is, really) but I think if you watch over those episodes you see that Jill really loves Chuck, she's just pulled in totally different directions. Even before Chuck arrests her, she offers to run away with him. So I wanted to explore that difficulty in this story. Glad you liked it and thanks for the review!**

**TeamBartowski: Hope I updated in a timely enough manner, and I'm glad you enjoyed chapter two as well. I will give you this spoiler: Sarah will not be Chuck's direct trainer. Read into that statement what you will. :-D I can't wait to get her involved with this story, but at the pace I'm going it'll be a few more chapters before she pops her pretty blonde head in. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Bubbly.o9: Glad you liked it! Hope you like this chapter, too! Thanks for the review!**

**Jinxed97: It's hard not to love Chuck as he is now is basically what I'm trying to say there, and I went further with that idea this chapter (even a CIA agent who knows nothing about him likes him straight away). Hope you liked it! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Drogonan: Glad to see that I'm setting myself apart from those fairly major works of Chuck fic. I agree about a more capable Chuck but, of course, that comes with consequences. I'm glad you like the focus on his relationships with Bryce and Jill, they're really interesting for having so little screen time in the series. Thanks for reviewing!**

**William Ashbless: Firstly, thanks for your continued reviewing of all my stories. I appreciate it. And thanks for looking into and reviewing this one, too!**

**Foxmac: Spiels are totally okay, and help a writer's thinking process a lot. I thought a bunch about your review. I'm glad we see eye to eye on Chuck and Bryce and Chuck and Sarah. I even say we see eye to eye on Orion, though I think him helping Chuck in the field would become too too Deux Ex Machina for me to feel comfortable writing. That said, with the other three groups, I'm still not sure how I'll work them in. I don't want to be writing them just for the sake of writing them, you know? I want them to be integrated into the story. I appreciate your input, though, and you've given me some material to think about! Thanks for that and for the review!**

**zipfe: This was kind of sort of training I guess? Like I said in my A/N, it's going slowly, but I want to set the stage that this CIA stuff is no joke, that they do things very thoroughly and that, even with that, Chuck is still qualified (destined?) to be a spy. Hope you can hold on a little longer for the true training to begin! Thanks for the review!**

**onesmartgoalie: I always assumed Orion was in contact with Bryce AFTER Bryce got Chuck kicked out of Stanford but BEFORE he sent Chuck the Intersect. Maybe that's just me. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks for reviewing!**

**Joe: Hey, I said beginning this that I'd respond to every review and I intend to, even if it takes awhile. I like having a dialog with people about my stories and this is a great way to do so. Like I mentioned, I do want to bring in all the characters to this story (it's not Chuck without them!) but I also want to make it important to the storyline, and not just an arbitrary reason to involve them. Chuck's attitude towards killing will definitely play a role in this story (Spoiler: Red Test drama!) and I'm glad it's on your mind. Thanks for the review!**

**Ozlex: I'm flattered that you think I'll get enough replies that it'll consume my story. That being said, if that does happen, I'll be okay with it. I love the dialog between readers and writers, and this way I won't forget about it in my absent-mindedness. I'm glad you like my story and thank you for the review!**

**:): Everyone wants them some Sarah (I do, too! Especially after all the lingerie scenes from vs. the Honeymooners!) But it'll still be a bit. I'm glad you liked last chapter and hope you like this one, too! Thanks for reviewing!**

**stayinthecar: Bryce and Chuck's relationship is deceptively complex and that's the reason I really enjoy writing about it. I'm glad you think that my story is apart in that way. And I have what is going to be a rather fun end to the Chuck/Jill relationship all planned in my head. Wee! Hope you stick around for the ride! Thanks for the review!**

**Fire Form Above: Like I mentioned earlier, the relationships between those three don't get much screen time, but are amazingly dense. Exploring them has been and will continue to be a lot of fun. Thanks for the review!**

**Pegasus0012: With the news of Frea's age I am now going to quit everything forever. Jesus. (No, I am just kidding, I'll keep writing this even though I am completely demoralized! Don't riot!) Thanks for the information on canon. I acknowledge that the Intersect was online before Chuck went to college (like I did at the end of this chapter), but I am pretty sure they didn't know how to**_** successfully**_** put it in people until it got in Chuck (otherwise, wouldn't they have had a bunch of Intersects already?) So I am running with the story from that perspective. Thanks for the info, though! And for the review!**


	4. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

_March 24, 2003_

The burner felt unfamiliar in Stephen Bartowski's hands. He studied its smooth contours, its primitive outer nature that belayed its complex inner workings. Somewhere behind its cheap plastic was a vast network of circuitry that would mask the phone's location, reroute hacking attempts and perform a variety of advanced, technical procedures. He knew everything there was to know about the one-and-done devices; he practically built him. Still, though, this one felt somehow unfamiliar. Really, though, it shouldn't have; it wasn't as though he hadn't used them before. Usually, though, they were for Orion conversations, and at this moment he most certainly did not feel like Orion. At this moment he felt like a father, and maybe that was the truly unfamiliar feeling.

Stephen Bartowski had spent most of his life, without hyperbole, attempting to avoid this very sequence of events. He had just watched his son begin the process of signing his life away to the CIA. It wasn't a worst case scenario, but it was up there. And, not only was his son becoming involved in the CIA, he was being pegged for the Omaha Project. Pegged to be a possible human interface for the Intersect. A project that Stephen himself had overseen for years, and had caused the deaths of a handful of agents. Good agents. Stephen turned the phone over in his hand, staring at it with intensity.

He'd run to keep his family safe of this. To keep them out of harm's way. To keep them away from government operatives and secret projects named after obscure Midwestern cities. To keep them away from the danger that he had invited in simply by being intelligent and lacking the foresight to see where the uses of his intelligences would lead.

And now, Chuck was running headlong into the fire.

Stephen Bartowski's fingers violently dialed the number.

The voice on the other end of the line was immediately defensive and suspicious, "Who is this? This number is secure access, how did you break through the encryption?" The deep and intense voice of CIA Director Langston Graham cut through the phone's speaker.

"You know who this is, Director Graham," Stephen said, his words distorted through his self-invented voice modulator.

There was a long pause on the other end before recognition dawned, "Orion," Graham said simply.

"That's right, Director," Stephen had found quickly in dealing with members of the CIA that overt formality was a good way to unnerve them. If you said their titles just right, it gave them the impression that you thought their titles were meaningless, and for people who had worked their entire lives for those titles, that feeling was powerfully crushing.

Stephen's burner beeped, and he looked at the screen as it noted a deflected tracking attempt, "I wouldn't be tracing this call if I were you, Director," Stephen said grimly, "Or you'll find yourself sending a team to the bottom of the Mariana Trench," Orion allowed himself a thin smile at the frustration the CIA would feel when they did indeed find their trace signal on his phone coming from the deepest point on the Earth.

"You've been off-grid for four years, Orion," Graham said calmly, "Taking with you or destroying a great deal of important research related to the Intersect and the Omaha Project. While we've made considerable progress, it was nothing compared to where we would be if you would agree to work on the Intersect again."

"When I found you using and killing human test subjects, Director," Stephen said, barely concealing the anger in his tone, "I felt my research was being abused. You have a computer capable of analyzing this data. I'd suggest giving up hope of interfacing it with an agent before more people die."

"I'm afraid we can't do that, Orion," Graham said gravely, "You are no longer part of this operation, Orion. Nor are you any longer a part of the CIA," The Director hesitated, his mind whirling quickly, "If, however," he gambled on the fly, "You wish to return to the Agency, you would have full control over the project."

Stephen Bartowski hesitated for just a moment, but long enough for Graham to know that he was somehow considering it, despite four years of evidence to the contrary, "Including candidates?"

The question threw the Director off guard. It was his turn to hesitate for a moment too long and give something of his hand away to the man on the other line, "No," Graham said simply, "The CIA has found a candidate that is far and away the most mentally qualified to handle interfacing directly with the Intersect. You would be working with him."

There was another long pause, this one less understandable to Graham. The next words out of Orion's mouth startled him to the point where he almost dropped his phone, "Chuck Bartowski."

"How do you know that name?" Graham demanded.

"Director," Orion said, and Graham could hear the condescension even through the voice modulation, "I was able to make a phone call directly to your office. I know about Chuck Bartowski," Stephen paused for just a moment, before making his final play, "I will return to the Intersect project on the grounds that Mr. Bartowski is stricken from the candidate list."

Stephen Bartowski waited with baited breath for Langston Graham's answer. In the moments of silence he felt the rough, unattractive contours of his burner, noting the grain of the cheap plastic, the unpleasing design angles of its surface, and its generally awkward casing. Again his mind turned over the idea of the advanced, complex innards of the device, the massively useful way in which it actually worked, and how the unassuming exterior belayed suspicions that the phone was probably one of the more astounding and unique things that existed on this planet.

In some ways, Stephen realized, and any hope that Graham would accept his offer evaporated with the realization, it was a lot like his son.

"No deal, Orion," Graham said.

The CIA Director offered no further explanation; he didn't need to. In once more regarding the phone in his hand, the phone he had created and designed, Stephen Bartowski understood just how much more valuable Chuck was than he, "Then we have nothing further to discuss," Orion said forcefully.

And, again, Stephen Bartowski buried his head heavily in his hands.

* * *

_May 27, 2003_

One of the first things that Jill learned about Fulcrum that directly impacted her day-to-day life was that the words "raid schedule" didn't mean anything to them. One time, a week or so after her initial recruitment, she tried to beg off a training mission to help her guild in attempting to get their server's first Cazic Thule kill, only to be met with a blank stare and the rather rudely communicated knowledge that the other activities in her life would have to be scheduled around her training, not the other way around.

This weekend was one of her and Chuck's gaming weekends. Every other Saturday they would stay up the whole night, running through a variety of two-player games of various genres and eras, each trying to best the other. They usually set up the night's gauntlet in advance and this week was going to be a night of classics: _Super Mario_ speed runs for the first event, then _Goldeneye_ 00 Agent-mode multiplayer, followed by _Tecmo Super Bowl_, where neither player could play the Raiders (because, they both agreed, Bo Jackson was just too good in that game), and finally _Sonic the Hedgehog 2_ racing mode (even though the bugs were kind of obnoxious), with _Mario Kart_ as a tiebreaker.

Where her sorority sisters thought it was the most dysfunctional relationship ever, Jill was glad to have someone with whom she could share her interests unabashedly, which made it even more disappointing when Bernie had given her notice of another training assignment in Los Angeles. Rescheduling gaming night was not something she wanted to do and, so far, that had worked out. But after the fiasco with her Everquest guild (they had actually booted her out and it had taken her _ages_ to find one with a more relaxed raiding schedule) she wasn't going to take any chances.

She knocked on the door to Chuck's room tentatively, always unsure how to break bad news to his smiling face. There were a few moments longer pause than she was used to, but it was still long before she would have entertained the idea of knocking a second time when Bryce opened the door, his traditionally handsome grin painted effortlessly on his face.

"Hey, Jill," He said easily, before turning his head over his shoulder and telling his roommate, "Jill's here," before smiling back at her.

"Hey, Bryce," Jill said simply.

Somewhere in the background she could hear Chuck retorting sarcastically to Bryce, "Oh, really? Jill's here? I couldn't hear you say 'Hey, Jill' across the ten foot chasm," He said impishly.

"There's a sarlacc in that chasm," Bryce said mock-gravely, "I wouldn't be so flippant."

Chuck popped his head into the doorway, smiling at his girlfriend before giving Bryce a blink-and-you'd-miss-it serious glance that sobered Bryce's expression quickly. Jill looked strangely between the two for a moment before dismissing it; they were always communicating silently between each other. It was something she'd have been jealous of if her and Chuck didn't have their own methods of silent communication. As quickly as the expression was there, it passed, and Chuck returned Bryce's remark with, "I'll be sure and double check my jet pack."

With that, Bryce dropped a shoulder, allowing Jill entrance into their room, "I'll be back in twenty, okay?" Bryce said easily, "Get packing," He added.

Jill tried not to let the hope of an easy way out of this situation cross her features, instead settling on a teasingly confused face, "Get packing?" She asked her boyfriend playfully, "Packing for what?"

"Well," Chuck drew out, his expression nervous and slightly disappointed, giving Jill even more hope that she was getting an easy out on this situation, "Bryce kind of sort of maybe asked me to go to the Hamptons with him and his family this weekend?" Chuck asked, his wince getting more pronounced with each word until he had actually turned his head to the side, covering his face and his groin with his hands. Having met Morgan, Jill had to stifle a laugh. Instead, she put on her best sad puppy look, before going over to Chuck and pulling his hands away from his face.

"So," Jill began coyly, and knowing he wasn't about to be chastised, Chuck relaxed, smiling and rolling his eyes at Jill's acting, "You were going to break off gaming weekend, and you were going to tell me this... When?" She asked, faking a sniffle.

"You had something come up, too, huh?" Chuck asked dryly.

Jill dropped her sad face, putting on a thin smile and haphazardly blowing a piece of hair out of her face, "Yep," She said sadly, wrapping her arms around her boyfriend's midsection and looking up at him, "Dad just got a promotion at work and, you know my family, any time they _can_ throw a party, they _will_."

"I understand," Chuck said, kissing the top of Jill's head, "So, do we do two gaming weekends in a row to make up for it, or just skip this one entirely?" Chuck asked, his grin and happiness spreading to his girlfriend quickly.

"Well, I'm always up for two in a row," Jill said coyly, and her boyfriend's eyebrows shot up at the innuendo while simultaneously his grin went a bit wobbly, "How about you?"

"Yeah," Chuck said breathlessly, "Uh, yeah," He repeated, his mind kind of obliterated. Jill smiled at the effect she had on her boyfriend before going up on her tip toes so she could kiss him deeply. After a few moments, they broke away.

"So, do you think you have the wardrobe for the Hamptons?" She asked Chuck teasingly, "I'm sure you'll want to look your best for all the upscale women that are sure to be there."

Chuck responded only by rolling his eyes, "I do own some nice clothes, you know," Chuck said in playful annoyance, intentionally avoiding the topic of other women.

"I know," Jill acquiesced, "I'm sure the blondes will be all over you," She continued in an agreeable manner.

"Stop it," Chuck scolded, "I'm not interested. I've got all I need right here," He confirmed that statement by kissing the top of her head, "Besides," Chuck continued, smiling in humor, "If you're worried about blondes, wouldn't they be way more likely to crop up in Southern California as opposed to the Northeast?"

"Don't remind me," Jill growled tightening her grip around Chuck's waist, only for Chuck to laugh at her amusing protectiveness. As he laughed he backed out of her embrace, taking his arms from around his waist and grabbing her hands with his, "Well, we both need to get packing for the weekend. And I know you have a paper to be working on."

Jill allowed a lopsided frown at his statement, not wanting to leave him, not looking forward to her weekend with Fulcrum, not enjoying the tug-of-war feeling occurring in her stomach. She pushed those feelings down, harnessing her training, but let the disappointment remain on her face; she didn't feel the need to hide anything from Chuck, "You're right," She sighed heavily, "Have a good time with Bryce, you two haven't had a lot of guy time in awhile."

"And you have a good time with your family," Chuck replied, "Love you," He added sweetly, leaning in for a chaste kiss.

"Love you, too," Jill replied, noting somewhere in the back of her head that it was these quiet moments with Chuck that made the exhausting training she was undergoing worthwhile.

* * *

_March 28, 2003_

Chuck had never flown before. He wasn't uncomfortable with the idea of flying, really. He viewed it more as an interesting piece of personal trivia that he could tell his children one day: 'The first time I ever travelled by plane was to go to a CIA training center.' Not only that, but as an engineering major, he felt it was a unique opportunity to see one of the more magnificent feats of human engineering in action. He smiled as he glanced out the window, and then turned to Bryce, who seemed completely nonplussed, in the seat next to him.

"Morgan is terrified of flying," Chuck said conversationally.

"He's flown?" Bryce questioned incredulously, his dry expression dissolving at Chuck's casual manner, "That's the more surprising fact, I'll be honest."

Chuck smiled, "He has family in the Midwest," He explained, "But he thinks that unless he's there to 'root' for the plane to stay in the air it'll crash."

Bryce couldn't help but let a laugh explode from him, "That sounds like Morgan," He admitted, "You know, I don't think he likes me very much?" Bryce said, "Every time we go down to Burbank to visit Ellie and see Morgan he always watches me the entire time."

"Oh, that one is easy," Chuck said breezily, "He's waiting for you to slip up in the best friend department so he can swoop in and save the day."

Again, Bryce let out a guffaw, "Oh, is that it?"

Chuck left his smile on his face, but Bryce recognized the next statement as loaded, "Yeah, well, he has a lot of practice with that," There was a pause after Chuck's words, but Bryce filled it by patting his friend solidly on the shoulder. The contact seemed to bring Chuck's mind incisively into the present, and the taller man looked at his friend as if suddenly noticing him, "He knows you'd have done the same," Chuck assured, and though Bryce wasn't looking for assurance it still felt nice to hear, "Which, you know, he considers a threat."

The light tone had been maintained all throughout the short conversation, and Bryce replied in such a way as to keep that brevity: He laughed lightly, removing his hand from Chuck's shoulder, "He's got nothing to worry about, buddy, you're too loyal."

Bryce stopped short, his hands suspended for an awkward moment in midair before it came to its place on the armrest that lay between the two friends. Bryce had intended to continue that sentence, but his mind blanked suddenly at the thought of Chuck's loyalty. It had always seemed boundless and maybe endless. It was one of his favorite things about Chuck.

And it was definitely going to be the first thing violently challenged by the CIA.

"Well," Chuck laughed, not noticing the moment, "Morgan's confidence runs about as deep as Arthur Dent's."

Bryce shook himself from the reflection and attempted to return to the moment, "Or pre-_Empire_ Luke Skywalker's," he agreed, but a part of his mind was now permanently fixated on what he had been trying to avoid thinking about: Chuck's upcoming physical examination.

The truth was, Bryce had given thought to a variety of ways in which he could somehow get Chuck to come back with a negative on his physical. Spike his food or water with a nausea agent? It would be effective, but Bryce would feel too bad about doing it. Try to convince Chuck to just throw the physical itself? It would never work. Try to forge his test results so he came back as color blind, or clubfooted, or with asthma? Well, it was just too obvious that Chuck was none of those things, and he'd be out of a job when it came back that he had fudged the results.

The plane started moving, heading towards its takeoff point. It was a relatively empty flight; L.A. to Williamsburg-- with layovers in D.C. and Richmond-- wasn't exactly a busy path, and Bryce surreptitiously grabbed the armrest on the opposite side of his body from Chuck so hard his knuckles turned white. He wasn't afraid of flying, just afraid of what the flight was heading towards.

"You know," Chuck started, his casual joy again breaking Bryce from his tense reverie, "I kind of wish we _were_ going to the Hamptons."

"Me, too," Bryce laughed, but only for a moment and as that laughter died down, he repeated the sentiment more morosely in his head: _Me, too_.

* * *

_March 29, 2003_

The CIA agents that Chuck had met so far had seemed at least vaguely human. Bryce, of course, was his best friend, and though there were times in their brief "work" related discussions that Bryce's training would peep through, Chuck still kind of regarded those moments as the aberrations, rather than the rule. Looking back on that now, he realized that was probably because Bryce was still a recruit, and hadn't been hardened by years with the agency.

Fleming, meanwhile, had seemed personable, if a bit dry. He spoke to Chuck with respect and sometimes friendliness-- at least as much friendliness as a professor could show towards a student. Even in their "official" meetings, Fleming seemed more like an uncle who had Chuck's best interests at heart, rather than a CIA recruiter. Looking back on that now, he realized that was probably the intention of someone who had such a likeable attitude. Fleming's character gave a familiar, human face to the process, one that was both supportive and convincing.

And Feldon… Feldon had slipped easily between a likable mentor figure and a distant agent, though neither had seemed completely off-putting. In fact, his attitude had served to encourage Chuck. Like Bryce had reminded him, the CIA training would change him, attempt to change his nature, but Feldon had seemed like enough of a normal guy that Chuck held out hope that he could still be Chuck Bartowski when he came out the other side of this. And, looking back on Feldon, Chuck realized just as much that his double-sided persona was probably just as much a tool used by the government as Fleming's had been.

Or maybe he was thinking these bitter thoughts because the agent assigned to his physical assessment was trying to kill him. Or at least get him to pass out.

"Ten more reps, Trainee Bartowski," Agent Forrest barked, and Chuck would have given her a dirty look if he had the energy and the inclination to die; The beautiful, red-headed agent seemed like she would be willing to snap his neck if he gave her the slightest reason.

Instead of complaining-- which would have been his natural response-- Chuck gathered up his second (okay, ninth) wind and continued to run the back-and-forths. Judging from Agent Forrest's expression, neither his speed nor his endurance were going to be reviewed favorably.

Or his strength, he reflected, remembering how disgusted she had seemed with his numbers for push-ups, chin-ups, leg curls, squats, or bench presses. Chuck thought for someone who had never worked out beyond his wild dart gun fights with Bryce he should be commended for still being able to stand, but figured wisely that voicing that particular opinion was probably a bad idea.

Chuck finished the back-and-forths, panting heavily, and with his long gangly upper body hanging pathetically from his waist. His willpower was in an argument with his knees about not buckling, but he wasn't entirely sure that his willpower was winning. With a great force of effort, as he came to view Agent Forrest's feet in front of him, he brought his body upright, every muscle protesting loudly along the way.

The female agent stood directly in front of Chuck, looking him determinedly in the eye. This, at least, was a test Chuck felt like he could pass. He maintained Forrest's gaze, his expression still utterly exhausted, though he tried to put a bit of defiance in it that probably never actually reached his face. After a few moments of tense (and kind of awkward, Chuck thought) stare down, Forrest took a step back, making a few more notes on her blasted clipboard.

"So," Chuck began, trying to be flippant despite his desperate pants, "Did I at least scrape by with a D?" He joked.

"Your assessment will be given to you in full after it is fully completed. You still have to undergo your color blindness test, blood work tests," Chuck was even too tired to go stiff at the prospect of needles, "And STD tests. Once those come back, your evaluation will be given to you."

"STD tests?" Chuck asked, tried to laugh, decided that his chest hurt too much to make good with the attempt, and settled for merely putting on an incredulous glance.

"Sexually transmitted diseases," Forrest explained, completely missing the intent of the question.

"I _know_ what STD stands for," Chuck protested.

"Mm," Forrest hummed, completely unconcerned, "Take a shower, dispense of the workout clothes, then report to room 521 for your testing."

Chuck took a deep inhalation, still attempting to catch his breath, "Alrighty," He said agreeably, then backtracked when he noticed Agent Forrest's hard glance at the inappropriate expression, "I mean, yes, Agent Forrest," Chuck was glad he still had the presence of mind not to call her 'ma'am.'

Forrest sighed at him, then turned to leave the room. Chuck got the distinct impression that she would be totally okay with never seeing him again. He couldn't help but agree with that particular unspoken sentiment. Forrest surprised him, however, when she stopped for a moment just at the door.

"For someone who has no background of physical activities," Forrest said haltingly over her shoulder, "You still performed at or above agency base lines for field work," The agent's gaze short sharply back in front of her and, without another word, she exited the room.

It wasn't much, Chuck thought, but he would take every victory he could get.

* * *

**A/N: So, I thought about making the trainer for this scene Agent Shaw, and then never return to him, but I figured that kind of fell under the category of "too soon." I know **_**I**_** still haven't healed from that particular wound. Oh, and I got a name drop in the author's note of Frea O'Scanlin's excellent What Fates Impose, which I called **_**When**_** Fates Impose in my first chapter because I am an idiot. Thanks Frea! And sorry for messing up your story title! Anywho, I tried to give you a lot of fun interactions in this chapter, and I hope you liked it! ONTOTHEREVIEWS**

**TeamBartowski: Orion; another character whose motivations are given a ton of complexity and shape in a limited number of moments. Love Scott Bakula in that role. Glad you liked the chapter and hope you liked this one, too! Thanks for continuing to review!**

**Dragonan: I hope this was quick enough! As far as Chuck with Ellie and Morgan, I am thinking that I will have a post-graduation, pre-training chapter that will serve as a way to explore those two, Awesome, and maybe the BuyMorons. I did include some mention of Morgan here and I hope that was enjoyable! Thanks for reviewing!**

**:): A bunch of them. And we had another terrific one tonight (I am pretty sure that I would have been as tongue-tied as Morgan in that situation). We got some more Chuck/Jill interaction in this chapter, I hope you liked it! Thanks for the review!**

**Joe: For psych test inspiration, I pulled equally from those tests you have to take to apply for temp agency work and the tests therapists give occasionally. I'm glad you're enjoying the pace and the characterization, as the former is something I was worried about and the latter something I have put a lot of work in, it's good to know both are working! Thanks for continuing to review!**

**Stayinthecar: Oh, Stephen Bartowski. Great, great character. Had to get him involved. Thanks for the review!**

**Foxmac: Chuck **_**is**_** a likeable person, but it's also part of Feldon's position to intentionally act personable. I mean, he really feels that way, but that's kind of why the CIA puts him in that initial contact position, you know? It's like a bait and switch! As far as Jill, I feel like that her position is way more ambiguous without the five years away from Chuck, and should be more tense for it! Sorry I didn't use your idea for an impromptu drop-in, I already had ideas for how I wanted this chapter to go, though that's a good idea that I will keep for future reference. And I never got a PM about Casey! Hit me up! Thanks for reviewing and the loads of feedback!**

**Onesmartgoalie: I am going to touch on the Orion/Bryce situation. I knew that I had a reason for thinking that their time working together started **_**after**_** Bryce kicking Chuck out of Stanford, I saw it on Stephen Bartowski's Wikipedia page (I mean, that may not be true, it IS Wikipedia, but whatever). I'm hope you liked this chapter, too! Thanks for the review!**

**Bubbly.o9: [awed voice] Orion knows allllllll. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Zipfe: Fun for the reader (I hope) not so much fun for Chuck! Poor guy. Thanks for the review!**

**Noctaval: I always liked Jill as a character, too. I thought her offer to run away with Chuck was super interesting at the time it happened, and even more interesting now when contrasted with Sarah's own request to do the same. What did Morgan say in that episode? "I'd like to help you with your addiction to really attractive women?" What a guy, that Chuck. Thanks so much for all the feedback and the reviews!**

**Pegasus0012: Well, it should be at least to the gen-u-wine action before I start slacking on the updates. ;) Thanks for the review!**

**BetweenTwoWorlds: I love Charah, too, but I have definitive ideas on when and how she's going to get involved and it looks like it still may be a little while. But I hope you all enjoy it when it does happen! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Tw200: I don't know if I could change my writing style even if I wanted to. Check my Harry Potter and Final Fantasy 8 multi-chapter fics, they are much the same way. I'm flattered at your compliments for my writing skills, and I'm glad that you're willing to buy in to my story enough that you can wait for the Charah. Thanks so much for the compliments and the review!**

**Fire From Above: I was more trying to communicate that Chuck had a sense that someone was watching him (besides who was expected to be watching him). Though a sense of camera paranoia may be interesting? And don't worry, I won't force Sarah where she doesn't fit. Hope you enjoy it when she does show up! Thanks for the review!**


	5. I See A Darkness

_May 30, 2003_

If there's one thing Chuck felt he could say for sure about CIA agents it was that they probably did not feel as though their entire body had gone numb, or as though their entire body was vibrating at an incalculable frequency, or as though they didn't even realize they _had_ muscles there just because of a physical evaluation. He was less certain, but still fairly confident, that admitting that particular sensation to anyone, even if the agent did happen to feel it, was what the _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ would qualify as a bad move.

So, as he sat there, across from another CIA agent-- it seemed like the tenth, eleventh, or five hundred and fifty-second one he had been introduced to over the course of the weekend-- he tried and probably failed to project an aura of indomitable will and mastery of his own body. In truth, Chuck figured he just looked vaguely pissed off. Which was okay; he was a bit of that, too. Still, regardless of likely looking like a fool or an asshole or both, and regardless of the fact that every muscle in his body was angry with him, Chuck held his head up and his shoulders straight.

He saw the man moving his lips and realized the act would probably work better if he could get his ears to hear anything other than his blood pounding. Chuck shook his head a bit, in a manner he considered to be subtle, but the agent across from him-- an Agent Barnes, he remembered-- hesitated in whatever he was saying and stopped fiddling with the papers in his hand and gave Chuck an odd look.

"Sorry," Chuck said, and cursed himself for sounding out of breath.

Barnes didn't say anything, just nodded in Chuck's direction, "As I was saying," Barnes began, and Chuck got the distinct impression that the crew cut-sporting agent knew that his trainee wasn't listening to him moments before, "You met agency baselines, which is good for someone with no physical fitness history in college," He smiled thinly, "It means there will be no need for remedial physical work."

"_Remedial_ physical work?" Chuck found the presence of mind to question, "What does that mean?"

Barnes gave Chuck a withering look, noticeably unhappy at being interrupted from his spiel. Chuck got the distinct impression that the other agent had these types of meetings down to rote, and any deviation from his script caused him irritation, "In a case that would require remedial physical work, we would place a hold on that agent's operative training until their physical tests were up to standard," The man took an obvious breath, then continued in a more monotone fashion through what Chuck assumed Barnes had memorized, "Given that you need no remedial work, you will be given an agency-approved training regimen, the goal of which will be to get you to your peak physical condition before combat training begins."

At the mention of combat training, Chuck's eyebrows rose the slightest bit, but he fought quickly to tamp them down before Barnes noticed. Thankfully, the older agent was completely ignoring Chuck, and didn't notice what Chuck thought ruefully should be fairly apparent information.

"According to your testing," Barnes continued, "You'll be working most on upper body strength and endurance," Barnes lifted one of the manila folders in his hands towards Chuck, it had Bryce's picture on it and Chuck assumed correctly that it was Bryce's file, "Since you're already in close contact with trainee Larkin," Barnes said, explaining the indication, "Your physical training can be done from your place of residence, under his supervision."

"So, wait," Chuck's interruption poured almost unwillingly from his mouth before he could stop himself, but as Barnes stopped and fixed Chuck with another angry glare, Chuck figured the best thing he could do was make the most of the second or two he had before Barnes' Medusa gaze turned him to stone, "Bryce is going to be, like, my boss?"

Chuck could have sworn that Barnes rolled his eyes, "No, trainee Bartowski," Barnes said simply, "He will merely be the one ensuring us that your physical training is going to plan. He will not be issuing you any sanctioned orders."

"Oh, well that's good," Chuck's traitorous mouth betrayed him again, spouting his thoughts before he had time for his brain to tell his tongue that speaking was another bad idea, "Because Bryce is terrible at issuing orders when we play capture the flag, he always ends up getting everyone else caught and then trying to take on the entire other team by himself," The thought gave Chuck a moment's pause as he contemplated and, though he probably should have just shut up at Barnes' murderous glare, he continued, "Maybe he was doing that just to train himself?" Chuck asked rhetorically.

"_Regardless_," Barnes interrupted with a biting edge, "This file," Barnes took a few reluctant steps towards Chuck, tossing one of the manila folders he had been holding onto the desk in front of Chuck, "Contains both the results of your physical examination, as well as a schedule for the benchmarks you should be achieving," Barnes took a step back, as if he was afraid that being too close to Chuck would cause the trainee's unprofessionalism to rub off on him, "If they are not met, we will be taking more extreme measures to bring whatever areas you are trailing behind in up to required standards."

The way that Barnes spoke the last sentence, Chuck figured that the seasoned agent full expected Chuck to start lagging behind in some-- and, depending on how condescendingly Chuck wanted to interpret Barnes' tone, perhaps all-- physical categories. Chuck was unsure if he disagreed.

"Ex-" The Stanford student swallowed heavily, "Extreme measures?" He asked, "Such as?"

That was a question that Barnes at least seemed to be expecting, and wasn't followed by the usual 'I will eat you as if you were a burrito' glare, "Intensive training with a specialist in whatever field you're struggling in," A slow, maniacal grin seemed to spread across Barnes' face at the prospect, though Chuck acknowledged that he could just be hallucinating.

"So," Chuck tried to inject some energy into his voice and only ended up sounding more nervous, "Work hard with Bryce," He pulled the manila folder towards him, "Or end up back here," the 22-year old summarized. Barnes' grin turned into a half-smile at that, one that seemed to gain an iota of pleasure at the idea of Chuck being nervous.

"Your plane leaves with trainee Larkin later today," Barnes' said, though the semi-smile colored his tone awkwardly, "Tickets are in the folder," Again Barne's lips turned into an approximation of a smile, "Have fun at class, recruit," He said sarcastically.

* * *

_March 30, 2003_

Chuck didn't think it was entirely fair that Bryce could walk out of a session of intense physical training at a CIA facility and look-- aside from the wet, showered hair he was hand drying-- like he had done nothing more than a single jumping jack while he, Chuck, felt like his legs were going to fall off. Chuck pulled heavily at the duffel bag that contained his items and it felt like an iron medallion around his neck, where Bryce was carrying his with annoying ease.

"Feel like your legs are gonna fall off, buddy?" Bryce said, reading Chuck's mind and laughing.

Outwardly Chuck laughed, but as Bryce came to his side and they began making their way out of the facility, Chuck said lowly and probably pathetically to his friend, "I'm kind of trying to wait to collapse completely until the CIA can't see."

"Don't worry about it," Bryce said easily, and Chuck once again was struck by the unfairness of their physical discrepancies, "I was like that after my first day, too."

"Really?" Chuck perked up, his shoulders going a little straighter as they exited the building

"That's the point of it," Bryce confirmed, opening the door to the car that was waiting there for them. Chuck thought idly how incredibly secret agent cool it was that they actually had a car there waiting for them as he threw his duffel in and scooted to the far side of the back seat. As Bryce ducked his own head in, placing his bag between them, he continued conversationally, "They push you as hard as they can right away, so if you're gonna quit, you're gonna quit right away."

There was a slight resignation to Bryce's tone that he didn't try to hide, though he knew Chuck wouldn't pick up on it. There was a part of him that was kind of hoping that the physical torment of the initial training session _would _encourage Chuck to quit. But it was hard not to be Chuck's friend when he was right there, even if the moral quandary of someone like Chuck willingly going into a profession so tainted still weighed heavy on his mind.

"Well," Chuck groaned through his protesting muscles, strapping in his seat belt. Bryce had to allow himself a small smile at that, one Chuck returned with an overly-annoyed glare of his own, "Mission almost accomplished."

Bryce smiled at his friend's exaggerated agony and put his own seat belt on as the car began heading towards the airport that would take them back to California. There were a few moments of silence before Chuck let an, "Oh!" escape his lips and unzipped his duffel, reaching into it for a manila folder and tossing it at Bryce.

Bryce, for his part, looked down at the folder with confusion, "What's this?" He asked, lifting the folder up to indicate it.

"My training regimen," Chuck explained, "Apparently you're supposed to be in charge of it."

Regardless of his feelings about Chuck being a part of the CIA, there was still a part of the Connecticut native that lit up when he thought about him and Chuck working together, "_I'm_ in charge of it?" Bryce grinned, letting an intentional bit of mad scientist cackle slip into his tone.

"Buddy," Chuck said, his tone attempting warning but not quite achieving it, "I swear if you make me start doing tae bo, I will post those photos of your 21st birthday party all around campus."

Bryce pulled a face that was simultaneously disgusted and impressed, "I thought I had gotten rid of all of those," he grumbled, not surprised that Chuck had been able to save what was more than likely the most incriminating of the pictures.

"If you're wondering whether I have the picture of you vomiting on a stripper, or the photo of you peeing on the dean's house," Chuck said gleefully, laughing at Bryce's more and more downtrodden expression, "The answer is both."

"Right," Bryce shook his head, laughing despite himself, "Of course it is."

A comfortable silence passed between the two friends before Bryce casually flipped open the folder and let his eyes briefly scan the workout regimen the CIA had approved for Chuck. It looked strenuous-- of course it did, it was CIA training-- but nothing that Chuck couldn't handle, "No tae bo," Bryce joked as he glanced through the sheets of paper, "Just standard light weight training and heavy cardio."

"Goody," Chuck mumbled sarcastically.

It was teasing, but not really, when Bryce replied, "Hey, you're the one that agreed to this," with a smile that couldn't keep Chuck from frowning at his friend.

"Bryce..." Chuck started.

"Look," Bryce interrupted, unable to meet Chuck's eyes, "I know..." Whenever he was trying to argue with Chuck his normal preternatural ability to smoothly communicate any feeling flew out the window, and he trailed off into a long pause, "I know you think this is the right decision," He finally settled on saying, "But-"

This time it was Chuck's turn to interrupt, "Bryce," Chuck said with such honesty that Bryce had to look up with his friend, "I have no idea if this is the right decision," Chuck admitted, his gaze floundering for a moment and focusing on the window next to Bryce's head, "But..." He sighed heavily, trailing off for only a second, "Buddy, this is how I'm moving forward," Chuck said with a certainty and strength that Bryce knew, logically, he possessed but had never actually seen, "My whole life I've been paralyzed by things that keep me looking over my shoulder. And I'm tired of it. I've always been 'Chuck Bartowski, computer nerd,' and I'm _tired_ of it."

If any comment couldn't have shocked Bryce, it was probably that. Bryce had gone to try to convince Fleming to fail Chuck because he loved the person that was 'Chuck Bartowski, computer nerd.' For Chuck to say now that Chuck didn't even love that person was an unexpected gut shot that hit him so suddenly he couldn't even respond.

"And," Chuck continued, an emotional smile gracing his features, "And I can _do_ this, Bryce," He said with the simultaneous certainty and self-doubt that only Chuck could pull off honestly, "I can _do _this," He said again, "And then I don't have to be that guy. I can be someone else. Someone better."

The silence that passed between the two men this time was distinctly less comfortable and the air hung heavy between them. They both seemed to tune their listening to the sound of the wheels rotating on the asphalt as the car moved closer and closer to the airport. Bryce simply acknowledged the sound, using it as a focus to gather his thoughts, where Chuck's mile-a-minute brain thought about the temperature of revolving rubber moving against asphalt, the speed of the engine and the pistons within it firing, the science of internal combustion; calculations like those were his mental balms.

"Chuck," Bryce said intensely, and the two friends made eye contact again, "You're already the best man I know," And he said it so fiercely that Chuck couldn't even think to argue, "This?" Bryce's hand gesture indicated everything about the CIA and spy life, "This isn't going to make you better," Bryce sighed heavily, "And, you know, a lot more people want to keep 'Chuck Bartowski, computer nerd' around than not," Before he could stop himself, Bryce began raising his voice and ticking the people off on his fingers, "Morgan, Ellie, Jill-"

That was all he could get through before Chuck snapped, "Are we really going to do this here? Right now? Are you really going to bring up my _family_ right now, Bryce?"

Never mind that Morgan was "just" his best friend and Jill was "just" his girlfriend of over three years, Bryce knew that the term "family" easily encompassed both of them in Chuck's mind and Bryce knew he'd stepped over the line for Chuck, knew it before he had even opened his mouth, but had wanted to drive the point home hard enough that Chuck would maybe reconsider.

Bryce tried to continue reasonably, "I just want you to _think_ about this stuff, Chuck."

"Stop, Bryce," Chuck said forcefully, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.

Normally nothing could stop Bryce's momentum at that moment. Normally, when the Connecticut native got an argument rolling down hill he'd follow it past the bottom, to wherever it happened to stop, but Chuck was different and had always been different. He would never have the ability to kick Chuck when he was down. Bryce let the thought pass quickly that, if they were an asset/handler situation, that he, Bryce, would be the very definition of compromised.

"Just," Bryce's voice was resigned, and it brought Chuck's eyes back open, and towards Bryce's forlorn expression, Chuck graced his friend with a reluctant half-smile, "Just think about it, okay?" Bryce said, and Chuck opened his mouth, no doubt to say that he had, but Bryce held up his hand and Chuck remained silent for a moment, "I know you already have, but..." He glanced downwards for just a moment and then upwards again, "Just one more time?" It came out more pleading than Bryce would have liked it to, but he couldn't help it; it was _Chuck_.

His friend nodded, his expression sober, "Okay, buddy. I promise."

* * *

_April 7, 2003_

True to form for Chuck and Bryce when they got into an argument with no resolution, they didn't talk about the subject again. Bryce knew that Chuck _had_, of course, thought about it again. Knowing Chuck as he did, the tall nerd probably had rethought it around a thousand times over the course of the week since their time at the Farm. But Bryce knew Chuck's answer anyway, from the way his orphaned friend had thrown himself into the physical aspects of his training.

The weight training was, of course, never going to be Chuck's forte, and he bemoaned their time in the campus gym the same way he would bemoan a night where their XBox's internet connection wasn't quite working. Still, though, he did exactly what his training called for, and usually a little bit more. It was in the cardio that Chuck really seemed to be exploding. Bryce and Chuck had been running every morning, much like they were doing at the moment. In addition, Chuck seemed always to be doing something active at home: jumping rope, sit-ups, push-ups, really anything he could do in one place between commercial breaks of _Doctor Who_.

Chuck was the type of person to try to involve everyone he cared about in what was going on in his life. He liked having the people he cared about huddled around him and whatever he was into at the moment. His _Twilight Zone_ obsession as a teen had blossomed into the annual Bartowski Christmas marathon. His love of Zork had turned into a competition among he, Bryce, and their nerdy friends about who could crank out a quality mod the fastest. And, now, his training in the CIA had turned into morning jogging sessions not just for the two of them, but Chuck had invited Jill as well.

The three of them were taking their circuitous, ten-mile route through and around campus. For the first three days Chuck had struggled through the path Bryce had planned, but had still managed the whole thing in a respectable time. Now, while Bryce knew Chuck wouldn't have been able to keep up with him if they were racing, he could jog the entire thing with his best friend and his girlfriend without stopping to walk.

Chuck was proud of that particular accomplishment, and he was proud in general of how he was performing during his training routine; Bryce seemed impressed, at least, and that bolstered Chuck's confidence. But what Chuck was most proud of at this exact moment, as he trailed about a step behind Bryce and Jill, was that he had convinced his absolutely gorgeous girlfriend to go on their jogs with them. Seeing her in running shorts and a sports bra jogging for the twenty or so minutes that this took up during their day was up there with some of the best ideas he had ever had. Most of the time he didn't even have the presence of mind to notice his lungs and legs aching because he was too busy thinking, _Dear God, I get to have sex with her._

"How did you even get Chuck to do this with you?" She asked Bryce, the two of them with more breath in their lungs than Chuck for a variety of reasons.

"Teasing, mostly," Bryce said, laughing, "About being pasty white and having no muscle mass."

Jill frowned at Bryce's childishness, "Trust me," She said dryly, "Neither of those two things are true."

"Please," Bryce pleaded exaggeratedly, "I don't want to know about that."

Jill smiled playfully over her shoulder at her boyfriend, who she noticed only just was able to tear his gaze away from her backside to make eye contact with her, and her smile grew wider, "You made some false accusations about my boyfriend," She said simply, turning her eyes back to Bryce's, "It's my duty as a girlfriend to defend him."

Bryce groaned, "Not that I don't _love_ thinking about the two of you naked," he said facetiously between strides, "But can we please change the subject."

"Hey," Chuck broke in, smiling at the easy banter between his best friend and girlfriend; it was great that all three of them got along with each other as well as they did, "For as many privacy socks as I've come back to over these four years, I think you should have to deal with a few descriptions of my naked body," He cocked his head, ignoring the feeling of rushing blood as he did so while he continued jogging, "Actually, on second thought, nobody should have to be subjected to that fate, Bryce, you're right."

"I could stand to be subjected once or twice more," Jill said, again smiling over her shoulder.

"Jeez," Bryce groaned, "I've come to expect Chuck drooling all over himself during these runs, but you, too, Jill?"

"What can I say?" Jill shrugged, "It's the animal shapes in his hair," She added, a wide smile splitting her face, "They do it for me."

"Hey!" Chuck protested, adding an extra stride or two to his speed to make up the distance he had been falling behind during the course of the conversation, "I think you've been talking to Ellie _way_ too much."

"Well, when my preferred Bartowski is gone," Jill said sweetly, "I have to make due."

There was a long pause, one accompanied by a decidedly disgusted look from Chuck and one of vague interest from Bryce, "You do realize," Chuck said, frowning with distaste, "That you just put the idea of you and my sister... _together_... in Bryce's head?"

Bryce's sheepish smile gave him away, and Jill gave him a look that communicated in a way that needed no verbal confirmation that she found his mind completely reprehensible in that moment. Chuck, however, was not that great at being silent, "Bryce, for the sake of my sanity and yours, can we please just forget that the last ten seconds ever happened."

"Agreed," Bryce said quickly and, just as with their conversation in the car, it was. That was the nature of their disagreements or complications, they didn't dwell on them, simply were able to eliminate them from their minds. Not because they were ignoring the issues at hand, but simply because they both knew each other well enough that the argument would work itself out just through their actions.

While with something like forgetting the last ten seconds wouldn't need an eventual resolution, their conversation in the car still did. Both Bryce and Chuck knew, however, that it wouldn't. As good of friends as they were, both could live unencumbered by the burden of that conversation hanging over their heads. They both cared too much about each other's feelings to bring the topic up again.

"You two are ridiculous," Jill laughed, "Though I am glad that any pseudo-incestuous lesbian fantasies have been officially stricken from the record," She added.

"Psuedo-incestuous?" Bryce asked, his face showing a pleasant, questioning smile turned towards his friend, but his eyes asking a different, more serious question, "Got any news for us, buddy?" Bryce asked.

"No," Jill said, fixing her boyfriend with a mock-glare and, just like that, Bryce's eyes relaxed a bit. Chuck wasn't entirely sure why asking Jill to marry him would be such a terrible thing, but Bryce's glare seemed to suggest it would be, "He has been decidedly lead footed in that regard."

"You know me," Chuck said, nerves coloring his tone though Jill just passed it off as exhaustion, "It takes me forever to get around to anything," Then, just because he felt residual frustration towards Bryce from their conversation on the way to the airport, he added sweetly, and with a distinctive note of defiance, "But it'll be worth it when I do."

Jill smiled at her boyfriend as Bryce looked steadfastly forward down their path. To Bryce, it seemed as though Chuck was trying-- and maybe (probably) he wasn't aware of it-- to have both a fulfilling real life and a fulfilling spy life. Teasing about marrying Jill, when the job he had just took would likely preclude him from seeing her more than three or four days out of the year? Refusing to acknowledge that he couldn't or at least explain to Bryce how he expected to be involved in Ellie's life, in Morgan's life, when he was hurtling himself so aggressively into this new life he was carving? It frustrated and confused Bryce and, coming from a friend as open and caring as Chuck, it even-- he was man enough to admit it-- hurt.

Chuck knew, logically somewhere in the back of his mind he knew, that dedicating himself to life as a spy would interfere and possibly (likely? He liked to hope not) destroy his relationships with those he cared about. But he tried not to acknowledge them, tried to push them out of his mind. Tried to think in the moment, where he had the girl _and_ had the family_ and_ had the ability-- he kind of doubted it but he hoped it was true-- to protect them all. After all, super heroes were able to do it. Why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't it work out for him?

"I know it will," Jill said meaningfully, and Chuck's expression snapped up for a moment, wondering if she was reading his mind, before he remembered what he had said a moment ago. A smile wormed its way onto his face, one that she returned.

Jill was fighting the same battle, a battle between acknowledging what the future was going to bring, and holding onto what the present already held. Really, they were both being completely honest with what they wanted and completely deluding themselves as far as what they could have.

Silence-- heavy, loaded silence-- filled the rest of their jog.

* * *

_April 8th, 2003_

The phone in Bryce and Chuck's dorm rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

"Hello?" Bryce picked it up, feeling both glad and frustrated that Chuck wasn't there.

"Is this CIA trainee Bryce Larkin?" A modulated voice on the other end asked.

* * *

**A/N: Oh, Orion. You never stop, do you? Took a bit longer with this chapter, but it ended up actually being a bit longer, too, so you take the good you take the bad and there you have the facts of life, I suppose. I really enjoyed playing up the drama in this chapter, and I hope it showed. **

**By the way, as we are at chapter five, I would like to point out that each chapter title and the title of this piece itself, are references to music. So, let's have a little contest! Hit me up with the answer to what band/artist I'm referencing with the story title, and each chapter title, in your review. I'll pm the first winner (try to do it without cheating-- aka Googling-- please!) and they'll get to request a scene for this story or one of my other ongoing pieces (my Chuck Me Challenge and my drabble fic, Other People's Words) or they can request a new one shot! Hey hey hey!**

**Now, to the reviews!**

**nirvana12: Sorry I didn't get this chapter up before you bounced out of town! I hope you enjoyed it anyway. As far as Jill and Chuck with spy life interfering or personal life interfering with their relationship, be assured, like all relationship problems, it'll be a little of both. Thanks for the review!**

**Lord of All: Thanks for reviewing! I am really having fun with the Chuck/Jill relationship and I've already got a few Chill converts on my side that I am totally going to eventually break the hearts of (sorry!). I hope you liked this chapter, too!**

**enz8: I... I don't know what any of that means? I will look it up and PM you if I have any questions regarding it, but as this story is more about an emotional journey and how it is connected to the spy journey, I don't know if I'm going for complete military accuracy, though I will definitely try to involve all the things you asked about. Thanks for the review!**

**zipfe: I have no idea if my story will necessitate bringing Shaw in at any point, I just thought he would be a good cameo as a trainer, but with all the anti-Shaw sentiment bouncing around, I felt Forrest was the safer choice, and probably more accurate. As far as Sarah, it'll still be more than a few chapters. I'm glad you liked the chapter and hope you like this one, too. Thanks, as always, for reviewing!**

**Ozlex: The best? You're far too kind. I'm flattered. Full-on training is only a one or two chapters away, so I hope you (and everyone else) enjoys that as much as I'm going to have fun writing it. Thanks for the review!**

**Foxmac: You are awesome, even in point form, for giving me so much feedback. Thanks for the grammatical corrections, I'll be sure to get on those as soon as this goes up. I'm glad you're enjoying all of the character interactions, and that you liked the Forrest cameo. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Spiked Jin: I'm really flattered that you think so much of the little universe I've created, especially that I've made Jill so believable and likeable that you're rooting for her and Chuck to pull through. It's an interesting story, the two of them, and one I plan on exploring fully, but a big part of why I wanted to write this story was to show that Chuck definitely had a destiny: as an agent, as the Intersect, and with Sarah Walker, despite how much the path may change. I hope you're ready for the ride! Thanks so much!**

**Joe: Not gonna lie, I'm just as big of a nerd as Chuck, I love those classic games, too. I wanted to portray in that chapter part of Chuck's yellow flag: he never thinks he's doing as well as he is, and I'm glad people are liking it. Thanks so much for reviewing!**

**Kryptonian250: Nah, no Forrest/Chuck loving (hilarious as it would be). It was just a one-off cameo, though I may bring her back if I feel like it's a good contribution to the story but definitely not in a romantic capacity. But, hey, you've just spawned at least one crack fic idea! Thanks for reviewing!**

**onesmartgoalie: I assumed (and continue to assume) that the reason the Intersect is just messing with Chuck's mind now in the show is to do with Intersect 2.0 more so than 1.0. I'm glad you liked the relationship drama (which continues here, yay!) and thank you so much for continuing to review.**

**jinxed97: How **_**did **_** you miss chapter 3? How dare you. ;) Glad you liked both of them, thanks for the review!**

**SK85: That's what I'm going for: different situations, same people. I'm glad you think I'm doing a good job. Thanks for the review!**

**Pegasus0012: Kept the Orion drama for a cliffhanger in this chapter. I'm such a tease. I'm glad that I have at least one Jill hater still reading, and I'm sorry for making them so mushy but, man, rewatching those episodes... they were frakking **_**mushy**_**, the two of them. So I wanted to make that the same here. I'm glad you still like it despite that! :) By the way, I don't hate Shaw, I just think his storyline was improperly paced. These things happen. Thanks for the review!**

**Drogonan: I definitely plan for cameos from the other spies we've seen in the Chuck verse. Your idea to have a mission that brings in a Carina or a Cole is a great one, and one that I hope to explore. Cole would be the more likely "partner" as he is the British equivalent of the CIA, but I'm sure I can bring in a situation where a DEA agent might be needed. As I just typed that sentence I came up with a completely awesome idea for this story and now that I've teased you with that, know that it won't come to fruition for quite some time. I really **_**am**_** a tease. Thanks for reviewing, regardless of my being a tease!**

**The Harsh Truth: No worries, Sarah will come exactly when she is needed and not a moment sooner. I'm glad you think so much of my writing, thank you for reviewing.**

**DanaPah: Well, I wouldn't say she's immune. She's working with an agent who has a yellow flag on self-image. I'm sure she was encouraged not to be too demoralizing to him, you know? I'm glad you like the pacing of the story. For now, I agree, there is very little action, but this whole bit with training and character interaction is a set up for later when I can do more action and, because of how deeply I'll have explored the characters, I'll be able to do more character drama with less actual, um, character drama. I definitely have ideas for the Red Test, and how people around him react to it. Thank you so much for all the feedback!**

**Fire From Above: As I mentioned earlier, I intend to explore the Jill/Chuck relationship and its intricacies fully, but this is a story that's really about inevitability, though not inevitability as a bad thing. I hope you like the story just as much when Sarah eventually does get involved! Thanks for reviewing!**

**:): No worries on the late review, I appreciate any and all reviews regardless of their timing! I definitely am planning on eventually having Chuck complete CIA training, and I'll leave that sentence open to interpretation. I'm having a lot of fun with Jill and Chuck, obviously, and I hope that when I do have them grow apart it seems natural and organic and understandable and not, you know, 'Oh, Sarah's here, I now want her instead of my long-term girlfriend.' I'm glad you're enjoying the story, even if you don't like Bryce. Thanks so much for all the reviews!**

**bubbly.o9: Nah. She didn't even sleep with Bryce when she **_**said **_**she was sleeping with Bryce, ya know? So I wouldn't do that here, though I can totally understand how that part may have been interpreted that way. Glad you liked the chapter and thanks for the review!**

**jagged1: I hope Casey will be included, too! Foxmac gave me a great idea on how I may be able to do it, so I thank her for that. I'm glad you liked catching up on the story and thanks so much for reviewing!**


	6. Blood on the Tracks

_April 22, 2003_

It wasn't unusual for Chuck not to see Bryce around the room on a Monday afternoon; Mondays had been Bryce's busy day all semester. The first day of the week for Chuck meant his class with Professor Fleming. The first time back to Fleming's had been exceedingly weird, as Chuck had trouble reconciling the serious man pointing out secret cameras and handing him classified papers with the affable, if a bit scatterbrained Psychology professor. It had taken him much of the past month to adapt.

The week of class immediately after his training out east he had been excused, as Fleming was sure to have been notified of the physical torture they ran the new recruit's body through the prior weekend. While Chuck was grateful at the time, he also had wondered idly if the same happened for other new recruits. He had asked Bryce about it some time last week and Bryce had merely said that his class with Fleming was on Wednesdays when he had been recruited, so it wasn't the same.

Owing to the fact that Bryce was usually in class all day (except for the morning when Chuck had his class), Mondays were also Chuck's "Call Ellie and Morgan days," as Ellie typically had time off at some point, and Morgan always found the time to talk to Chuck. It was another ritual he had pretty much skipped that first week after training from exhaustion, only talking to each of them enough to tell them that he was wiped out after his trip to the Hamptons with Bryce and had a lot of school work to catch up on. The past few weeks had been good, and Morgan and Ellie had been the sounding boards he needed in the face of Bryce's new tendency to run hot and cold in their friendship.

He picked up the phone, which shocked him with a small jolt of static electricity the moment he touched it, before dialing Ellie's number and sitting down on his bed. He pushed thinking about his friendship with Bryce, one that bounced back and forth the past few weeks between being exactly as it had been, representing an exciting new chapter, and buckling under its own new weight, out of his head.

"Hello?" Ellie said, and Chuck couldn't help but smile and feel the troubles of his friendship dissipate a bit at the sound of his sister's voice.

"Hey, Elle," Chuck said, his smile evident in his tone.

"Chuck!" She exclaimed, her voice going high-pitched as it usually did when she was excited, "It's Monday, isn't it?" Chuck noticed the breathless undertone to her voice.

"Yep," Chuck confirmed, smacking his lips on the 'p' of the word, leaning back on his bed and stretching out perpendicular to the bed's length. "How're you, Elle? You sound exhausted."

"God," Ellie said, just the tone of her voice agreeing with Chuck's diagnosis. "You have no idea. You're lucky you caught me when you did. I have to go in for another overnight in a few hours."

Despite the fact that she couldn't see him, Chuck frowned at the words. "I'm sorry, Elle."

"That's okay. Devon has the same overnight shift, so there's that."

"You and Captain Awesome still going strong, then?" Chuck asked, a playful grin stretching across his face; it was a question he asked every week.

Despite her sigh, Chuck could still hear his sister's smile. "Yes, Chuck, Devon and I are fine."

"Good," Chuck said, fiddling with the edges of his sheets. "So aside from Captain Awesome and hospital beds, what's been going on with your life, sis?"

"Sleep," Ellie said seriously, causing Chuck to laugh. There was a contented silence from the other end, and Chuck knew Ellie well enough to know she was enjoying his happiness, a sentiment she only confirmed by saying quietly, "I miss you, Chuck."

"I know," Chuck responded just as quietly, sitting up on his bed and swinging his legs around so he was sitting with his back against his headboard. "I miss you, too, Ellie." He let a melancholy grin slip out. "How's the party planning going?"

"The one thing I do at home aside from sleep," Ellie quipped, but not without a bit of her excitement at the prospect of a party sneaking in. "It's going good, though. Devon's more of a help than I expected."

"Well," Chuck said, feigning sagacity, "Awesome's awesome, it makes sense."

Chuck could practically hear his sister rolling her eyes. "What about you?" she asked. "Any additional information about this jooob?" She stressed and stretched the last word, causing Chuck to smile and roll his own eyes, even as his stomach clenched uncomfortably at the prospect of lying to Ellie about the job.

"Nothing new to report, really" Chuck said, glad Ellie wasn't there to pin down his insincerity with her patented Stern Glare (TM). "He's offering me an assistant position with his research team in Washington, D.C." He hoped that his voice didn't waver as much over the phone as it did in his bedroom. "I'll be studying if and how effectively people can decode subliminal imaging, and coming up with image-based encoding systems for data."

"That's great, Chuck," Ellie said, but something about the way she said his name pulled the corner of his lips down. "It's just..." She trailed off as Chuck reached around to grab the headboard with his free hand. "I thought you wanted to work with software and computers?"

"Well," Chuck wondered if it was kind of sick that it got easier the more detailed he got into the cover story, "in a way, I'm working with the most advanced computers on the planet." Even if it was just a cover he was genuinely intrigued by the idea behind the story.

"That's true," Ellie relented, and Chuck did his best not to make his sigh of relief audible. "I just want the best for you and you know that."

"I do, Elle," Chuck said, glad to be out of the conversational realm of subterfuge. "I'm really looking forward to seeing you."

A short pause, followed by a long sniff meant that Ellie had teared up at his confession. "I am, too." Chuck felt the emotions bubbling up in him, too. "And I want you to know," she managed to get out, "I'm proud of you."

"Elle, come on," Chuck began, trying to tamp down on Ellie's emotional outburst before it got to him any further, "it's an assistantship. It's not that big of deal." His voice was almost pleading, both to avoid Ellie's cracking voice and because lying to her was bitterly painful. Every word she was saying was making him reconsider Bryce's words in the car.

"Maybe not to you, Chuck, but it is to me. As long as you're doing something you want to do, something you're proud of doing, then I'm proud of you." The warmth in Ellie's tone caused the uncomfortable feeling growing in him to expand, and he adjusted his sitting position on his bed in a futile attempt to shake loose of that feeling.

"I am," Chuck said solemnly, at least able to tell the truth about that, and he felt the knot in his stomach unclench. "I truly am."

"Good," Ellie said, and her tears had turned into proud resolve. "Now call Morgan before he freaks out too much. You know how he gets on Mondays."

Chuck laughed. "Right. And you still sound like you're about to crash, so you get a nap in before you have to hit your night shift, okay? I don't want to be responsible for you passing out on top of a gunshot victim."

Ellie laughed, and Chuck enjoyed the sound; he was always happier when his sister was happy. "Alright, Chuck. I'm looking forward to your party, even if you and Morgan are going to sneak into your room and play video games after an hour."

"Ellie!" Chuck exclaimed, laughing as he did so. "You underestimate me, I can hold out at _least_ two hours."

"Oh," Ellie said, faking remorse, "I'm _so_ sorry."

"Love you, sis."

In the silence that followed, Chuck could hear his sister's smile grow from ear to ear. "You, too, Chuck."

* * *

_April 26, 2003_

Jill was glad for the small favors the world occasionally granted. This weekend, as she had been called off for another intensive training session, was thankfully not a gaming weekend. After all, they had done their two weekends in a row following Chuck's outing with Bryce in the Hamptons. One where, Jill was happy to know, he did _not_ meet any blonds.

In a way, her training at Fulcrum's facilities was almost like having another, incredibly intensive science class. Uncle Bernie and her superiors were urging her toward a doctorate in molecular biology. To that effect she was studying under a small group of Fulcrum scientists who were attempting to create immunizing agents to certain bioweapons, like Anthrax.

What she liked more about the work she was doing, if she were honest with herself, was creating ways for Fulcrum agents to hide data and pass it to each other in the field. In short, she was working on puzzles, just like Bernie had noticed she had a talent for as a girl. Too often Fulcrum was finding that, no matter the strength or complexity of their encryption, the government simply had the resources and time to crack it, so they were looking into more organic ways to hide their information, and it was something in which Jill seemed skilled.

This weekend she was working on a prototype for one of her designs, something she was still brainstorming. Sitting in her bedroom of her parents' house, she stared at the random notes in her notebook, trying to find a way to put all of the pieces together. She ignored the phone ringing in her house, allowing her parents to pick up the phone.

"Jill?" her father called up the stairs.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Chuck's on the phone."

She felt a girlish flutter at the sound of Chuck's name, but pushed it aside as she concentrated on scribbling another idea for her design. She distractedly picked up the phone, holding it between her head and her shoulder as an idea struck her.

"Hey, Chuck," she said, placing the pencil in between her teeth and looking down at her notes intently.

"Hey, sweetie," Chuck said, and his smile was obvious even over the phone, causing Jill to smile back despite her attempts at concentration. "What are you up to?"

The fluttering feeling stopped abruptly as her brain quickly processed a believable fabrication. "Oh, you know," she said, intentionally keeping her tone light, "just school work."

"Organic chemistry?" Chuck asked, as that was Jill's most difficult class at the time.

"How did you know?" Jill asked dryly, simultaneously proud of and sick with herself at the ease and believability with which she could lie to Chuck.

Chuck's joyful laugh, however, was too infectious for her spirits to remain down, and she was glad to let a small smile out as he playfully mocked her, "As if you haven't spent this entire semester buried in that Vogel's textbook."

Jill smirked, glancing at the offending textbook on her desk, glad that she had finished that particularly brutal round of homework before having to head off for the weekend.

"So, I was thinking," Chuck began, and Jill pulled the pencil from her mouth, the excitement of Chuck's voice taking her concentration away from her work. "We've only got two more weeks of game night before graduation, right?" He plowed through without waiting for an answer. "I think we should make them special, you know? Go all out."

For a moment, Jill didn't reply. Lost as she was in simply listening to her boyfriend's pleasant voice over the phone, she had failed to actually pay attention to what he was saying. In addition, she realized that independent of intention, she had transitioned from using her pencil to make notes to using it to draw elaborate doodles that looked a bit like the shapes that could be found in Chuck's hair. She shook her head clear, picking her pencil up off the paper and quickly ripping the page out. "How do you we do propose that, Chuck?" She asked coyly, trying to gloss over the long pause.

"I think you should let me surprise you," Chuck said sweetly.

The thought caused Jill to frown a bit. She loved Chuck's surprises as a rule, but as her life was getting more and more complicated, she tried to avoid them. Chuck's surprises were usually very involved and subsequently very sweet, but she knew that if he went snooping into her life now he was bound to find something leading back to her involvement with Fulcrum. "Chuck, as much as I love your surprises, I don't think my heart can take that kind of stimulation with finals coming up." She tried to make her words sound flattered yet flustered.

In the pause that followed, she could almost see Chuck's face fall. "Oh," he said, in that sort of wounded puppy dog tone that she hated to hear, as it was the one-- and maybe only-- way that Chuck allowed the painful moments of his life to slip to the surface. Maybe it was just a projection of the empathetic guilt Jill felt towards Chuck for his familial situation, but when he used that tone of voice, Jill felt like she could hear the same little boy that had to watch both his mother and father walk out.

A long silence reigned over both ends of the phone, and Jill tried to fill the silence with the scribbling of her pencil against the paper. In the uncomfortable mood shift she found a splattering of ideas written out and small diagrams drawn on her paper. Inexplicably, she was more frustrated by her potential breakthrough than by the pointless doodles that she had drawn earlier.

"Is everything okay?" Chuck asked, and the obvious concern in his voice caused an uncomfortable feeling to grow in the pit of her stomach. "You've just seemed really stressed out lately, especially about school, but you've been going home a lot more and…" He trailed off, sighing. "I don't know, I'm worrying about nothing right?"

Jill couldn't help but smile. Chuck's always-impressive selflessness both cheered her up and enhanced the feeling of distance that she knew she was creating between them. "I know I haven't been my usual self, Chuck," she agreed, flipping the page from her furiously scrawled notes. "And I'm sorry."

She hesitated, knowing she had to tell him, but dreading it. "It's just, you got this job-- And that's great, it really is, but it's all the way in Virginia and…" Though he couldn't see her, she still allowed a self-deprecating smile to grace her features. "Chuck, a company that my father's best friend works for, they're offering to pay for my doctorate."

"That's great news, honey!" Chuck exclaimed, and Jill found herself unable to respond to his genuine enthusiasm. A beat of silence passed. "Right?"

"Chuck, the company is here in California and…" She sighed, and looked down at her notebook to find ugly, angular shapes on that page. "And they want me here to do work for them while I'm studying."

"So…" Chuck began, "You're going to be staying…" His voice was somehow both understanding and accusing, "In California."

"Yes," Jill confirmed, the marks growing darker on her page. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"No, I get it," he said, his voice indicating that he was obviously overwhelmed, but also that he truly did mean what he said. "I get it."

Jill let out an audible sigh of relief. Throughout their entire relationship Chuck had been so wonderfully understanding with any problems that would come up, and this was just another piece of supporting evidence to Jill that Chuck was probably the best boyfriend she could have asked for. "I'm sorry, Chuck," she said earnestly.

"You still…" She could sense his hesitation over the phone line, could hear the question he was going to ask before it left his lips. "You still want to stay together, right?"

"Of course," Jill replied immediately, with a guilty sort of surprise that Chuck would that ask that question, though she had been expecting it since Bernie had suggested (though "suggested" was an incredibly light term) the idea a week or so ago\. "Chuck, of course I do."

"Good," Chuck said. Somehow, Jill could still hear a smile on his face.

Despite everything, despite her ever-growing involvement in Fulcrum, despite the prospect of a difficult long-distance relationship, despite the emotional difficulties she was having reconciling these two parts of her life, if she could still look forward to Chuck's smile, she liked to tell herself that was enough.

* * *

_April 26, 2003_

Bryce paced from Chuck's bed to his own. He wasn't normally the type to pace. He wasn't even normally the type to be anxious. The package he was receiving, however, had Bryce more on edge than he could remember being in years.

His conversation with the man who only identified himself as Orion a few weeks earlier had been short, terse, and to the point. After circling around the issue of how Orion had contacted Bryce and who exactly Orion was, Orion had gotten straight to the point: Was Bryce Chuck Bartowski's roommate? Was Chuck Bartowski a recruit for the Central Intelligence Agency? Orion would send Bryce a package containing a burner of his own design, one that couldn't be tracked by the CIA. It would be there in nineteen days.

The timing seemed arbitrary to Bryce, but he didn't argue the point. When the phone had hung up in the middle of another round of Bryce's questioning about Orion's identity, Bryce's anxiety about the package started. Since then, it had slowly grown, an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his gut that rotated haphazardly through his digestive system.

The knock on the door shouldn't have startled a CIA recruit, but it did.

"Ma-ma-ma mail call, jagoff," one of the brothers, Jake yelled, and Bryce took a deep breath before he opened the door, just so a believable amount of time would pass.

To avoid arousing suspicion, Bryce had let one of the frat brothers who lived downstairs deliver the mail to everyone in the house, despite the fact that he had felt an almost uncontrollable urge to sit in the foyer and wait for the mail to be delivered.

"Thanks, Jake," Bryce said, taking the letters-- one from Ellie to him, Bryce noted, and laughed at the thought that Ellie had probably sent him an invitation to Chuck's graduation party, even though he was Chuck's roommate-- and the small package. As Jake went down the hall, Bryce closed and locked his door, doing his best to do so quietly; locked doors led to suspicion.

Bryce flipped open the phone. As he had been instructed by Orion, Bryce simply hit the number 1 and called. A complicated series of noises passed through the phone's receiver, sounding similar to but entirely unlike the tones of a fax machine or a dial-up modem.

The modulated voice of Orion followed the sudden stop of the tones. "Hello, Bryce."

"Orion," Bryce acknowledged with a heavy voice, continuing to pace, hoping illogically that he wouldn't scuff the hardwood floors of their room. "Any chance of this conversation being less cryptic?"

"Yes," Orion stated simply.

"What do you want with Chuck?" Bryce asked.

"I want to protect him." Orion's answer was as concise as those in their first conversation, and Bryce's anxiety for his friend grew. He didn't understand what someone whose technology could hack government protocol would want with Chuck, but he figured it didn't bode well for his friend, despite Orion's assertion of benevolence.

"Why contact me, then?" Bryce challenged, stopping for a moment to cross his arms, a position that CIA training taught him was to assert dominance, though it meant little in a phone conversation.

"I looked into Professor Fleming's records," Orion said. "I know you attempted to remove Chuck Bartowski from the CIA's recruitment track." Bryce thought he could detect a quiver of emotion from the modulated voice, but immediately discarded that idea as ridiculous; the strange vocals quivered with every syllable. "We're at intersecting purposes, Mr. Larkin."

"Look, Orion," Bryce kept his voice low, but injected it with as much righteousness as he could muster, "Chuck accepted his CIA position, he's a recruit now." It was a painful truth to admit, though it was also unwillingly an exciting one as well. Doing physical training with Chuck, Bryce had wanted it to be a reminder of the friend he was losing. Instead, it had become an exhilarating friendly competition, like so many of the times they had played darts in the library together.

"Neither of us want that," Orion said, though Bryce felt a twinge of uncertainty at the remark.

"If you have any brilliant ideas," Bryce ground through his teeth, "now would be a great time."

The long pause on the other end of the burner gave Bryce all the answer he needed. "All I can do at this point," Bryce said as loudly as he dared, "is protect Chuck to the best of my abilities."

"Is not dying worth losing yourself?" Orion asked, and that time Bryce was certain he heard a flicker of emotion in the heavily changed voice. Even the manner in which the question was asked seemed to be a man asking himself rather than one who was expecting an answer.

"I don't know," Bryce said quietly.

There was another awkward pause, before a heavy sigh shot through the line. "I know why they want Chuck Bartowski."

The thought stopped Bryce's pacing for a moment. "Why do you?" he asked.

"What?" Orion definitely sounded surprised at that, and Bryce took a small measure of pride in knowing that he could unnerve a disembodied voice.

"Why do you want Chuck Bartowski, Orion?" Bryce asked, his voice and face hard, though the latter mattered little. "Why should I trust you?"

"You have no reason to," Orion's voice agreed after a moment, "but I know where Chuck's path leads. What you can trust me on is that neither of us want him on it."

"What do you mean?" Bryce tried to ask, but found himself speaking with a dial tone.

* * *

**A/N: So, first things first, I have to use this space to give major props to my new beta, **_Frea O'Scanlin_, **the wonderful author of **_What Fates Impose_. **I am pretty sure she only agreed because she wanted to be able to change any parts where I ripped her off. So, thanks Frea! Other than that, I just wanted this chapter to really hammer home the upcoming stress between all of these characters, and I hope I communicated that. As far as the contest goes, I was super disappointed in you guys! Only one attempt! So, Ayefah, the winnings go to you! I'll PM you soon. For those interested the answers were:**

**Story title: Bob Dylan song, from the album _Tangled Up in Blue_  
**

**Chapter 1: Frightened Rabbit album**

**Chapter 2: Spoon album**

**Chapter 3: Antony and the Johnsons album**

**Chapter 4: Wilco album**

**Chapter 5: Bonnie "Prince" Billy album**

**When I get to chapter 10, I may or may not run another similar contest, so be on the look out.  
**

**To the reviews!**

**Team Bartowski: I'm glad I can get you on board with Chuck, Jill and Bryce, as they're an integral part of this story, especially the beginning. I hope the interaction between Bryce and Orion was satisfactory, too! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Stayinthecar: I miss Bryce in the show, I'm gonna be honest. Such a great character. I hope his collaboration with Papa B did it for you here! Thanks for the review!**

**Zipfe: Don't worry, I've got plans for John Casey. I think. He'll be wonderful when he does show, I know that much. **** Thanks for the review!**

**Jinxed97: Even more lovable Jill and conflicted Bryce this chapter! Hoped you liked it! Thanks for the review!**

**Kryptonian250: The question of how I'm going to work Sarah in with Jill as his girlfriend is something you're just going to have to read about and find out! I kind of planted the seeds here in this chapter, but yeah. Regarding Orion, I really don't think he had much to do with the Stanford thing; I always read it as Orion contacted Bryce AFTER Bryce got Chuck kicked out. And I don't think Jill ever tricked the lie detector, just manipulated Chuck so he wouldn't notice it when she DID lie. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Joe: You're too kind, sir. I'm glad I can get you invested in Jill and Bryce just as much as Chuck. And I liked Barnes. I kind of imagined him as Casey minus humor, thus making him angry and still awesome. Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Ayefah: Ayefah, you win the prize! I'll PM you to ask what you want for it once this chapter goes up. I'm glad you "got" the idea of Chuck not liking himself. Looking over some of S2 and S3, I've come to the realization that the "normalcy" thing Chuck asks for in S2 a lot is just a defense mechanism, when what he really wants is to do something important with his life. Glad you liked the story and I'm happy you're enjoying the pacing. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Onesmartgoalie: I hope you liked the Bryce/Orion convo! Thanks for the review!**

**Tshdow: I'm not sure what you mean about "lost"? Maybe you can explain it to me, I can be slow sometimes. Thanks for the review!**

**Lord of All: Indeed. I'm hoping that I can pace Chuck and Jill's arc so that it reads realistically and not rushed or unimaginable (*COUGHShawCOUGH*). I'm glad that you think I'm doing well so far. Thanks for the review!**

**Foxmac: Love all the feedback, as always. I'm glad you're picking up what I'm putting down, so to speak, regarding these characters. I appreciate it. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and thanks for continuing to review!**

**Fire From Above: A Chill fan? I didn't even know those existed! I have to admit, there is a closet Channah fan in me, Hannah is just too freakin' adorable. Regardless, and as much as I do believe that Chuck and Jill love each other at this point, I just feel as though the lives that they've been destined to lead push them in different directions, and I also feel like, while Chuck and Jill **_**work**_**, Chuck and Sarah are **_**destined**_**. I hope I can get you to believe in them as much as I do in Chuck and Jill! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Just Chuck: I'm glad you think so! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Pegasus0012: More emotional evolution than physical here, but the physical is certainly coming. Training will assuredly start soon. Thanks for the review!**

**Supesfan18: Hey! Glad to have a new reader! I'm glad that you're liking everything so far, even if I have you impatiently waiting for Sarah and Casey. Hopefully you'll be willing to bear with me for awhile while I work them into the story. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Drogonan: The best? You're faaaar too kind. As far as the idea of a rival, I'll take it into consideration, though I think I'll have more than enough drama going on just between the people who **_**like**_** each other. Thanks for the input, though! Like I said, I'll definitely think about it. Thanks for the feedback, and the review!**


	7. High Violet

_June 21, 2003_

Whom Ellie had picked up her party-planning abilities from, Chuck had absolutely no idea, as their parents had both been fairly insular people. But somewhere during her time away at college and medical school, it seemed to Chuck, Ellie had picked up the ability to gather a large group of semi-related people together and create an environment where everyone was comfortable, happy, and at least a little bit drunk. It was almost as impressive as her skills in the emergency room.

Standing in the open courtyard of Devon and Ellie's Westwood apartment, Chuck took a moment to look out at the huge variety of party-goers that Ellie had assembled. Chuck's fraternity brothers, including Bryce, were there, as was Jill and some of her less snobby sorority sisters. Chuck saw Morgan and some of the guys from the Buy More that his little bearded friend worked at debating whether to drink more and subject themselves to society at large or sneak away and play video games. Some of Ellie and Awesome's medical school friends were talking with his frat buddies, whom he could see hitting on - or rather, attempting to hit on- some of the female med students.

Laughing to himself at the sight, Chuck took another sip of his beer. As he pulled the can away from his lips, his sister's boyfriend came up and slapped him on the back.

"Chuck, buddy!" the aspiring doctor said, taking a sip of his own beer, "How's it feel to be done with school? Pretty awesome, huh?"

Chuck took a moment to mentally note the good Captain's use of his titular word before replying. "It really does, Devon." Chuck wasn't entirely sure if he meant the words. "You and Ellie have a year left, right?"

Despite his general enthusiasm for everything, the ragged corners of Devon's eyes betrayed the exhaustion he felt at the prospect of another year of med school. "Yep. And year three is practicals, so we'll be actually working with patients." Behind that obvious fatigue, Chuck detected more than a hint of genuine excitement.

"Glad to have some time off between sleepless nights, then?" Chuck asked, watching Morgan shoot Bryce a dirty look across the courtyard.

"Well, both Ellie and I will be working 50 some hours a week at this clinic over the summer," Devon explained, following Chuck's gaze. "So there'll still be more than a few of those."

Chuck nodded, then shifted in place, not really sure of what to talk to Devon about. Though Captain Awesome was, well, awesome, he and Chuck had very little in common and Chuck always felt that their interactions tended to be awkward formalities littered with small talk.

That feeling abruptly changed when Devon took another sip of his beer and moved so he was standing right in front of Chuck. "Look, Chuck, you know I love Ellie, right?"

While Chuck knew the statement was unequivocally true, it still took him by surprise that Awesome was in front of him, actually saying it. "Uh, yeah, yeah. I do."

"I know we don't really talk that much and that we don't really know each other, but I think you're an awesome guy." Devon took a heavy, steadying breath before continuing, "And you've been all that she has for so long. I respect that. I respect you."

"Thanks, Devon," Chuck said, both bewildered and touched.

"You're all the family Ellie's got, bro," Devon said, returning to Chuck's side and slapping him firmly on the back. He left his hand on Chuck's shoulder. "And I didn't want you to leave without you knowing how much I care about that, and how much I care about you."

Chuck felt like he had taken three or four separate gut shots over the course of that statement. Devon somehow managed to hit on all of the anxieties that Chuck had been successfully suppressing in five seconds: Chuck's impending move out east, his increasingly dishonest relationship with his sister, a clawing guilt at leaving her behind like both of their parents had done to them, and a sense of losing one of the few people in the world closest to him.

But "Thanks," was all Chuck said.

From across the courtyard, Ellie called "Devon!" and waved him over. Devon held his beer up at her and began walking towards his girlfriend.

"Duty calls," the med student said. He stopped after a few steps and turned back to look at Chuck. "I'm going to do my best to take care of Ellie, Chuck. I just wanted you to know that."

Chuck let a genuine smile extend across his face. "I do know."

Devon returned the smile with a toothy grin, and continued making his way over to Ellie. Just looking at his girlfriend of almost two years, he could tell she was trying- and failing miserably- to contain her excitement at her boyfriend and her brother sharing a moment.

"Soooooo..." Ellie baited him as he came over. She took a sip from the screwdriver she had made for herself. "What was that all about?"

Devon threw a strong arm around Ellie, putting on a sage expression. "Oh, you know. Just helping your brother figure out the long distance relationship thing."

Ellie frowned, not wanting to think about the tribulations his brother's relationship with Jill would face. After four years, Ellie had assumed that the next chapter for the pair was going to be moving in together, starting lives together. Knowing that they were being pulled to opposite ends of the country...

Instead of dwelling on that, she quickly turned her facial expression into one of mock-suspicion. "What do you know about long distance relationships?"

"The girlfriend I had before you," Devon said, letting out a low whistle of appreciation.

Ellie's mock suspicion turned into one of real disapproval with a side of reproach. Devon scrambled to make up for his faux pas. "Don't worry, babe," he said, attempting charm and failing. "She was nothing compared to you."

Ellie rolled her eyes, but allowed Devon's arm to remain around her shoulders. Comfortable in her boyfriend's light embrace, she scanned the party, her eyes immediately catching on her brother, Morgan, Bryce and a few of Chuck's fraternity brothers. She used his happiness to try and avoid thinking about the reason for their current brouhaha.

She glanced over at beverage table, smiling as she spotted her brother's girlfriend pouring herself a refill. "Oh. Hey Jill."

Jill looked up from her drink, smiling as she saw it was Ellie. "Hey Ellie. Devon," she said. Both nodded at her.

"So, what's your poison?" Ellie asked, holding up her drink.

"Oh, just Sprite." Jill shook the nearly empty two-liter bottle, then poured the remainder of its contents into her glass. "I have to drive home yet tonight."

"Oh no! You have to leave tonight?"

"Not awesome," Devon added, taking his arm from around his girlfriend.

The truth-_"Yes, I have work to do for an anti-government faction early tomorrow morning,"- _almost spilled out of Jill. It was always that way when she was talking to either Bartowski; it was just inherently difficult to tell them a falsehood. Somehow she managed to school her features into a disappointed expression. She gave Ellie and Devon a regretful grin, one that only caused Ellie to frown in disappointment and Devon to give her an empathetic look.

"I know, it's terrible, but I've already got work to do for Uncle Bernie's company." Jill's features turned into a more genuine frown at the thought of leaving Chuck and not knowing when exactly she would see him again.

Whenever she left him she was leaving progressively larger and larger chunks of her behind, with him. But that was because she knew she'd be coming back to him, able to visit those pieces again. With the ambiguity of his upcoming move, she felt a bit like she had to take all those pieces back, regardless of how honestly she wished he could keep them.

"That's your dad's friend?" Ellie asked for confirmation.

"Yeah."

"It sucks," Devon interjected. "You and the Chuckster both got great career opportunities, just on different sides of the country."

Jill gave a sad sort of laugh. "That about sums it up." Ellie cast her boyfriend a sharp gaze, to which Devon could only helplessly shrug.

"I know what you're going through," Ellie said.

That got at least a less depressed gaze out of Jill's face. "Even worse."

"He's just too damn lovable." Ellie's mock-outrage allowed Jill to crack a smile.

"Not talking about me, are we?" Bryce's voice cut through the conversation.

Ellie laughed, playfully shoving her brother's friend. "You wish, Mr. Larkin."

Bryce laughed back. "Mr. Larkin, huh?" he said, rolling the syllables needlessly. "Sounds official, Ellie. Hey, Devon, Jill."

"We were talking about _Chuck_, Bryce," Jill said.

"Chuck? Too lovable? Very, very true," Bryce said, then abruptly stopped after considering both the truth and lie of it. Quickly he schooled his features back into his rakish grin. "But I like to flatter myself and say we're close on that matter."

"The way I hear it from my sorority sisters," Jill teased, "is that once they get past the lustful, there's not much lovable left."

Bryce grinned wider as Devon let out a rich belly laugh. "Ouch," both men said. As Bryce threw a glance over his shoulder towards the aforementioned sorority sisters, he added, "Is _that _why they've been avoiding me all night?"

Ellie looked back and forth between the two friends, amused. Their quick and easy banter reminded her of less socially awkward versions of conversations she'd heard between Chuck and Morgan. She looked over at her brother, talking with some of her fellow med students. She was proud of the friends her brother had accumulated. Even if Morgan was sometimes creepy, he was loyal to Chuck almost to a fault. And Jill and Bryce had helped him gain a confidence that even she didn't know Chuck could possess. He was growing up before Ellie's own eyes.

She shook away that thought before she started getting misty. Instead, she turned to Bryce. "So, you're the one that's stealing away to Washington, D.C. with the love of Jill's life?"

Bryce shrugged apologetically. "Guilty as charged."

"God, I can't imagine living with Chuck," Ellie said, looking over at Devon as she did so. "All of his _Doctor Who_ DVDs and video games and... Does he still have that poster from that stupid movie, what's it called again? _Tron_?"

"You don't like _Tron_!" Jill and Bryce exclaimed.

"Oh, God. I forgot. The two of you are like Female Chuck and Chuck Two," Ellie said, giggling.

"Chuck Two?" Bryce asked. "I think I kind of resent that."

"You should be so lucky," Jill retorted. "I'm quite happy at the idea of being Female Chuck."

At that prospect, Bryce looked vaguely disgusted. The expression on his face caused Jill to echo Ellie's giggle.

"Well, anyway, since Jill just drank us out of Sprite, we'll have to go grab some more from inside," Ellie said. "C'mon, Devon."

"As you wish, m'lady." Captain Awesome said.

"Have a good time, you two," Ellie added as she walked towards the door. "I'm sorry you can't stay tonight, Jill."

"Me, too." Jill said.

As Ellie and Devon entered the apartment, Jill and Bryce took their place against the complex's wall, looking out at the party. Unknowingly, both of them immediately focused on Chuck, who was currently communicating with Morgan in a way that seemed to be entirely predicated on massive hand gestures. Jill and Bryce both fondly considered at the tall dork. As the both made eye contact again, they each found the other reflecting their own feelings for Chuck.

"How are you holding up?" Bryce asked, intentionally ignoring the moment. "With this whole long distance thing?"

Jill frowned. "God, am I going to have to listen to that all night?" Her voice attempted strength, but there was a distinct fragility behind it.

Bryce had the decency to look a bit abashed, though Jill wasn't exactly sure how genuine it was. For that matter, neither was Bryce. "Sorry. I'm just worried. You're both my friends."

"I know. I'm just trying not to think about it, you know?"

Bryce gave Jill a wan smile. In the silence that passed between the two friends, they each took sips of their respective beverages.

"I'll make sure he doesn't get too buried in work," Bryce said quietly, attempting levity but coming off far more serious than that. "Okay?"

Jill's smile was somewhere halfway between genuine and indulgent. "Thanks, Bryce." She took another sip of her soda before nodding over by a small group of her sorority sisters. "I think I'm going to go talk with them, okay?"

Bryce let out a shaky laugh. "I think I'll stay over here. Apparently, they don't like me."

Jill smiled back. "Probably a good idea, Bryce. They usually don't when you sleep with them and don't call them back."

"How many could I have actually done that to?" Bryce asked, incredulous.

"Four," was the amused response as Jill walked away.

Instead of dwelling on his one-night stands, Bryce took a moment to enjoy the scenery. A plethora of twenty-somethings at various levels of inebriation meandered through the courtyard, exchanging small talk or less than small talk. He followed various people with his eyes and reflected on the fact that this was probably the last he or Chuck would see of this sort of frivolity. He took the time to appreciate it, and felt a stab of regret that Chuck, in not knowing how his service to the Agency would change him, couldn't do the same.

His morose musings were interrupted by a fairly obnoxious clearing of the throat to his left. Before he even looked over, Bryce knew it was Morgan Grimes, the man that fancied himself Bryce's nemesis.

"Bryce," Morgan said, attempting to project gravitas.

Bryce withheld a smirk. "Morgan."

Morgan did his level best to intentionally not look at Bryce. "How are you?" he asked tightly.

"I'm good, Morgan," Bryce said calmly, amused. He took a sip of his beer just to toy with the bearded Buy More employee. Earlier Bryce had noticed that Morgan had taken a bottle of the same kind of beer as him, a heavy, dark ale that Bryce figured Morgan had no experience with. "And you?"

"Good, good. Why wouldn't I be?" Morgan took a sip of his beer, and the expression on Morgan's face indicated that he wasn't nearly as used to the heavy beer as Bryce was.

Bryce shrugged indulgently. "No idea, Morgan."

An incredibly awkward pause followed as both men stared out into the party. Bryce kept sipping his beer, purposefully exuding nonchalance, waiting for Morgan to crack.

"Okay, fine," Morgan put his drink down and crossed his arms at Bryce. "I'm not good. You know why? Because _someone_ is taking _my_ best friend away. Across thousands of miles of land. And you know who that someone is, Bryce Larkin? It's _you_."

Bryce had to stifle a laugh. "Morgan, I'm not taking Chuck anywhere. He just got a job, you should be happy for him."

"I'd be happier for him if I didn't think that someone had brainwashed him," Morgan said, fixing Bryce with his baddest glare.

In reply, Bryce raised a single, amused eyebrow.

"Okay, fine. Maybe not brainwashed, but certainly- _certainly_- duped in some way," Morgan said, gesturing madly with his hands.

This time Bryce couldn't hold back his laugh. "Morgan, I didn't have anything to do with this. I tried to convince him _not_ to take the job." Bryce felt a stab of conflicted emotions at the truth within the lies.

Surprise crossed Morgan's face. "Really?"

"Hey, guys." Chuck's nervous voice cut through the tension between his two best friends. "What's goin' on here?"

There was a moment of embarrassed silence from both Morgan and Bryce in which Morgan tried to process the information Bryce had just handed him, and Bryce looked vaguely ashamed about baiting Morgan in such a way. Sometimes, Bryce felt like he couldn't help it- Morgan was simply too easy to bait- but he knew that Chuck didn't see it that way.

Morgan turned from Bryce to Chuck. "Is that..." Morgan shook his head in wonder. "Is that true? Even _Bryce_ wanted you not to take this job and you did anyway?"

Chuck's shoulders dropped and he adopted a vaguely helpless expression. "Yeah, buddy, that's true. Can we not talk about this here?"

"It's like I don't even _know_ you anymore!"

Realizing the swarm of bees he had stirred up, Bryce interjected, trying to defuse the situation. "Look, Morgan. C'mon. Settle down." Bryce put a hand on Morgan's shoulder.

He looked apologetically up at Chuck as he did so, but Chuck's eyes were focused on Morgan and didn't meet his own. The fact that Morgan would be genuinely upset about the situation _should_ have occurred to Bryce, but somehow it hadn't. The fact that their voices hadn't risen to a level that would distract the other party-goers was one of those small favors Bryce would thank a variety of deities for later; if he egged Morgan on into ruining the party, Ellie would never let him or Chuck live it down.

"No," Morgan replied, shrugging off Bryce's hand. "Look, Charles Irving Bartowski..." Morgan attempted and failed to raise an eyebrow. "If that is your real name."

If Chuck's shoulders could have sagged further, they would have.

Morgan was unrelenting. "The best friend I used to have would never- _never_- have decided to move thousands of miles away without consulting his lifelong partner-in-crime. He _never_ would have left his family and friends and even_ girlfriend _behind because of a _job_."

There was a moment's pause, and Bryce saw Chucks struggling to refute Morgan's words. Part of him vaguely hoped that Chuck wouldn't, that Morgan would succeed where Bryce had failed. He backtracked from that thought when he considered the idea of losing out on Chuck as a partner, and Chuck losing out on something he actually desired.

Bryce tried again to intervene. "Really, Morgan. That's enough."

That was enough to turn Morgan's ire towards Bryce. "Look, Bryce. I know you think that you and Chuck are bosom buddies now that you're going to be living together and everything, but I've been Chuck's best friend since elementary school and this?" He pointed an accusing at Chuck for a moment, then let it fall back to his side. "Chuck, man, what are you doing?"

At least fourteen or fifteen separate emotions that crossed Chuck's face. Bryce saw them all, could almost categorize them by this point. They were the same uncertain emotions that had been passing through his own mind for the past three months.

Suddenly, Chuck's face turned hard and cold. Bryce knew immediately the gist of what Chuck would say next, just from seeing his face freeze like every young agent's did at some point in their training. Bryce had watched his own face do the same in the mirror, on the day he had truly committed to CIA service.

"I'm looking out for myself, Morgan," Chuck said, and neither Bryce nor Morgan had ever heard Chuck use such a tone of voice. Both young men looked more than a little surprised. "This is what _I_ want to do. And, yeah, it sucks that it's on the other end of the country, and maybe it _is_ a selfish decision." His expression turned from hard to helpless in the span of a blink. "But it's _my_ decision and..." He sighed heavily. "Can't anyone just be _happy_ for me?"

He looked imploringly between his two friends for a moment before shaking his head, dropping his beer bottle in the nearby garbage can and walking away. Chuck felt like everyone always expected him to make the decision that kept the most people happy and, now that he had made one decision to make himself happy, no one seemed to want to accept that. It was exhausting.

Not paying any attention to where he was going, Chuck walked right into his girlfriend.

"Hey, stranger." She smiled at him, and then noticed his downcast expression. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," was Chuck's immediate and typical response to the question.

Jill knew the best way to get him to talk was just to give him a few moments of silence and maternal glaring. After a few seconds, it worked.

"It's just, no one seems to be _happy_ for me and this whole..." He blew out a deep breath. "Job thing. I kind of had an argument with Morgan and Bryce about it."

Jill's gaze softened. She grabbed her boyfriend's arms and wrapped them around her. "_I'm _happy for you, Chuck." It didn't take any sort of effort to make the phrase feel genuine. She truly was. Even as much as it would be difficult for the two of them, she was happy for Chuck because _Chuck_ was happy. She didn't have it in her to take that away.

"Yeah?" His expression slowly cheering.

"Yeah," Jill confirmed, standing up a bit to kiss him.

It lasted for a moment before the pair broke away. Chuck gave Jill an intense gaze. "Good," he said, smiling as he lifted her off the ground and into another, longer kiss.

As he put her down, Chuck spoke strongly and softly into her ear. "Nothing is going to change between us, okay? I won't let it."

Jill tried not to explode from happiness at Chuck's passion. "I know."

The pair stood there, holding each other, before an awkward clearing of the throat interrupted them. Morgan stood there, his facial expression the very definition of the word "sheepish." Chuck and Jill disentangled themselves, and Morgan shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

After a few moments of silence, the shorter man finally spoke. "Look, Chuck. I'm sorry, man." He shifted his weight once more. "I _am_ happy for you. I really am. It's just weird to think of life without my best friend."

Jill kindly scoffed, "He's not _dying_, Morgan."

"I know." Another shift of weight. The bearded man sighed. "But everything is going to change now, and it all happened when I wasn't ready for it."

When Morgan gained the ability to verbalize Chuck's repressed doubts, Chuck was unsure. Instead of dwelling on it, Chuck just said, "It'll be okay, buddy. I'm not just going to disappear from your life entirely."

A voice at the back of Chuck's brain reminded him that disappearing from Morgan's voice entirely was a distinct possibility. Chuck ignored it by throwing a congenial arm around his friend. "Alright? You'll come visit me and we'll hit up the Air and Space museum together."

"We _have_ always wanted to do that, together," Morgan said.

"Right?" Chuck laughed. Before they could get into another serious discussion, Chuck intentionally changed the subject. "C'mon, let's go get another drink." The man of the hour steered his girlfriend and friend towards the drink table, where Bryce had let them hash things out. As they approached, Chuck threw one of his long arms around Jill and the other around Morgan.

"So, I caught the demo Bungie showed of _Halo 2_ at E3. How badass does that AI look?" Chuck asked as they got within hearing distance of Bryce.

"And those graphics?" Morgan said. "My _God_."

Within moments, all four of them were engaged in intense conversation about the Flood, the Covenant and Master Chief, willfully ignoring the future just for another moment.

**END PART ONE**

* * *

**A/N: So, this chapter marks the end of the first part of Chuck vs the Simple Twist of Fate. The entire purpose of this first part was to set the table, so to speak, for the rest of the story. We now know pretty much all of our major players (except Sarah, of course), and we've foreshadowed much of the emotional distress that these characters will be undergoing. Part two? Well, part two is going to move forward a LOT more quickly, with its primary focus being Chuck's training. ****Again, I have to give a ton of credit for this chapter to my beta, **_Frea O'Scanlin_**. She tightened up this chapter marvelously. Without her, you would probably have just been reading twenty pages of people smiling. **

**Lastly, I feel like I would be doing a huge disservice if I didn't point out to anyone and everyone reading this story that we've got a wonderful contest going on, the Second Annual AWESOME Awards for Excellence in Chuck!fic Writing. Give credit to the best writers in the fandom, and head over there and nominate! Here's the direct link: ****.net/topic/49974/26380380/1/**** I give you this link, not in the hopes that you'll just nominate me (But, really, if you insist… ;) ) but that you'll give props to any and all authors in the Chuck fandom that you think deserve it.**

**With that said, ONTOTHEREVIEWS**

**Kryptonian250: Sarah will be coming up pretty soon. I promised my beta (Hi, **_Frea_**!) that I'd introduce her by chapter 10. So, max, we're three chapters away. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Supesfan18: No Orion in this chapter, unfortunately, but he'll be coming back and soon. I agree Bryce is more emotional than we see him in the series, but he's only a trainee at this point, and pretty much all of this is concerning Chuck, where he does tend to get emotionally involved. Sarah and Casey will be showing up in Part Two definitely, so get ready! Thanks for the review!**

**Jinxed97: Why not a big fan of Orion? Just in general or this story? I'm trying to hit more on the "Orion" portion of his personality right now over the "Stephen Bartowski" portion, if that makes sense. Hope you liked the new chapter! Thanks for the review!**

**Taintedlegacy: Thanks so much!**

**Onesmartgoalie: Glad you liked last chapter and that I've got you invested in these characters. Thanks for the review!**

**Fire From Above: Well, being a Chill fan, hopefully this chapter again plucked all the right notes. And, like I've said, I hope that the way I introduce Sarah and ween out Jill doesn't alienate you from the story (I promise no "love at first sight/now I hate my girlfriend" awkwardness, kay!). Thanks as always for reviewing!**

**TeamBartowski: Those Bartowskis are so open you only need one phone call to really drive home their relationship. ****I'm glad you're loving all the different characters I'm giving you, and I hope you liked getting some more with this chapter. As I said, Sarah will be hitting soon, so be excited (B. E. Excited!). Thanks so much for the review!**

**Stayinthecar: What kind of story would it be without trouble in the air, right? No Orion/Bryce here, but that'll be back quite soon. Hope you liked this latest chapter. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Foxmac: I love your spiels! I'm glad that I'm communicating the characters and their intentions so well and that you're getting so much out of it. I think you're right on pretty much all accounts as to what I was trying to convey. Hope you liked the latest chapter! Thanks for the review!**

**Thokul: Hey thanks! **

**DanaPAH: The conflict of emotions over the Jill and Chuck relationship is pretty much exactly what I'm going for. Hopefully, when it does come to a close, you'll be both a little bit sad and a little bit happy with how it all went down. As far as Orion and Bryce, well, you can wish the best out of both of them, but without them talking to Chuck about these things are they ever going to get to that point? I don't know. Maybe. OR MAYBE NOT. Okay now I am just teasing you. ****Thanks so much for continuing to review!**


	8. The Moon and Antarctica

_November 11, 2003_

Chuck was running.

Toward something? Away from something? Bryce would probably say both.

He ducked under a wayward tree limb, keeping speed even as the extension of his body pulled at the muscles in his back. He split concentration between keeping a keen eye on the ever-changing terrain and a focused ear on the sounds of any guns being fired.

_Paintball guns_, he reminded himself.

The rest of his team had been taken out. Chuck had avoided a similar fate by adhering equally to both the principles he had established playing dart guns with Bryce in the Stanford library and the rules he had created playing _Halo_ with Morgan: don't stick your neck out. Play the angles. Fools rush in. Never get involved in a land war in Asia.

He had played defense all game, taking tactical shots while other members of his team tried to be heroes, or badasses, or both.

The defense thing, it was a smart move.

One of his instructors had told him that his greatest asset was he didn't really make dumb moves.

That instructor didn't know shit.

It had been six months since his graduation party. Three months since he had last spoken with Ellie for more than fifteen seconds. One and a half for Morgan. Three weeks for Jill.

Sometimes he wondered what he was doing here.

He still had a problem pulling the trigger on his paintball gun. Just like he had always had a problem pulling the trigger on his dart gun.

He jumped a random log, ignoring the way the melted snow splashed over his boots. It was an unseasonably warm November day, and the snowfall that had littered the landscape a few weeks ago now simply made the autumn leaves soggy and had created an abundance of small puddles over the training grounds.

Autumn trees towered over him, stretching out to what seemed like forever. The terrain arched and dipped haphazardly. He remembered that he could see _stars_ here, which was weird to a long-time resident of Southern California. Who would have thought that the CIA had a section of Jefferson National Forest fenced off?

A paintball went whizzing by and, though he had no evidence, Chuck suspected it was Bryce. He jerked his head around to see, but couldn't make out anyone amongst the foliage behind him.

He kept running.

There was a small burrow in between two hills, set in a deep ravine, where the sides of each turned into a narrow stone gap. If he got there before any members of the other team could reach the high ground that overlooked the thin path, he could bottleneck the remaining members of the opposite team. It was a smart move.

But, then, how smart could he be if he couldn't even give his sister a straight answer on how the research was coming?

_You know, we're just talking it out right now_, was probably the dumbest move he had made in a long time.

He tripped over a stray branch, tumbling into the wet leaves, trying to turn it into a roll so if anyone saw him it wouldn't look completely pathetic. Thank God that he had tripped heading into his target ravine. He managed to come out of the roll with some forward momentum still going and made his way into the corridor of the two hills without getting hit. Chuck attempted to make it seem as if he was going to spring out the other side by keeping his gait full bore as he headed in.

He heard splatters of paint-balls in his general vicinity, and knew that the others were catching up to him, but still not close enough to take a good shot.

Chuck wondered idly if there was a James Bond quip he could make in that moment. Something combining "close but no cigar" with paint and/or household activities, but nothing concrete came.

Morgan would have thought of something.

The bottleneck curved slightly, so at its apex he could see both ends, and if he shifted just past the apex on either side he could be protected from one end while completely exposed to the other.

He tossed some of his spare paint balls towards the exit end of the bottleneck, hoping that someone stepping on them would create enough noise to let him know that his enemies- he thought there were four including Bryce, but he couldn't be entirely sure- were attempting to surround him. It was a smart move.

Chuck rounded the apex back to the original entrance only to see a well-aimed shot from one of the camouflaged members of the other team splatter next to his face. He took a moment to stare at it in wonder, before ducking the next shot. He managed not to hesitate pulling the trigger, and was rewarded with the splat of his paint hitting armor and a distressed groan from the other guy.

His gambit with the paint balls at the other entrance to the crevice paid off: he heard the paint squish under foot from the other entrance. He moved quickly, knowing his opponent would try to immediately backtrack. Chuck chalked it up to the fact that he didn't know the other agent as the explanation for why it was simpler to pull the trigger and hear another satisfying hit.

The last time he called Ellie and Devon's apartment, he only got a hold of Devon.

"Chuck!" Devon had exclaimed. "Been awhile, bro."

"Yeah. Is Ellie around?"

"Sorry, Chuckster. You just missed her. Her shift just started at the clinic." Devon's tone sounded genuinely disappointed.

Chuck had frowned. "Okay. I'll try giving her a call another day."

"She says you haven't been picking up your cell phone recently?" The question had been more like an accusation.

"It's been crazy here," was the best excuse he could come up with. Dumb move.

That instructor didn't know shit.

He felt more than heard someone drop down from one of the hills down behind him. Only Bryce would try something that crazy. He turned around quickly, trying to get a shot off, but in a moment of mutual awkwardness their paintball guns connected and flew out of their hands.

"Hey Chuck, fancy meeting you here," was Bryce's breathy quip.

Before Chuck could reply, Bryce threw a haphazard punch towards Chuck's midsection. The blow came too fast for him to effectively block, and he could only huff in pain as it glanced off his side. Immediately, Bryce followed up with his other hand. Chuck went to grab Bryce's wrist, but telegraphed the move too obviously. As soon as his fingers began wrapping around Bryce's arm, Bryce jerked his hand back and instead swept Chuck's legs, sending the taller man to the ground with a dull, wet thud.

Hand-to-hand combat had not been going well.

Instead of attempting to get back up, Chuck grabbed a snowy mound of leaves and threw them in Bryce's face, hoping it gave him enough of a distraction to roll to his weapon. Smart move.

"Dude, you haven't been on XBox Live, like, all month!" Morgan had complained the last time they spoke.

"I know, buddy, this is just... It's important work."

"And making sure Bungie gives gamers the most intense online experience they can isn't?"

He fit in here about as well as a Klingon at the midnight showing of _Attack of the Clones_.

The distraction didn't take long enough. Not more than a half a roll away from his weapon he felt Bryce yank him to his feet, and roughly pinion his arms behind his back. He struggled for a few seconds, before the faint burst of pressurized air and distinct thwack told him he had been hit by the other guy on Bryce's team without Chuck even having to check for paint.

As soon as the paint hit, Bryce released him, spinning him around. Bryce's trademark grin was plastered on his face.

"Smart move, Chuck. With the leaves."

Chuck sighed.

Bryce didn't know shit.

* * *

_November 13, 2003_

All Bryce could hear was the sound of breathing, his own mingling with Chuck's as they crouched next to each other behind a few crates. Enemy agents were somewhere, protecting the target package.

This was his and Chuck's team subterfuge training.

One of the things Bryce's friend was distressingly good at. Chuck was beginning to look like he belonged in the black tactical gear they were both currently wearing.

Chuck glanced over at him, and the taller man's bright brown eyes shot over to the left. Bryce knew that Chuck was indicating that a patrol was heading their way. There was a question in Chuck's eyes, too. The most basic spy question: fight or flight?

After five months of training and four years of friendship the pair didn't even need to freaking speak to communicate.

Bryce nodded almost imperceptibly and Chuck's eyes showed he had caught it. As the patrolman's leg made its grand appearance, both he and Chuck fired their tranquilizer darts point blank into the flesh of the calf. The body collapsed and Chuck caught it, lowering the man to the floor so that he wouldn't land with a thud and give away their position.

Once the body was down, Chuck turned to Bryce. "I thought that was the _you take the shot_ nod," Chuck whispered.

Apparently there were still _some_ kinks to work out.

"It was the _get out of the way_ nod. The _you take the shot_ nod is slower." Bryce was only partially joking.

"I'll watch for that next time," Chuck replied dryly.

The California native's eyes darted from Bryce to the right side of the crates. That one was clear: _time to split up_.

For a half a second, Bryce hesitated.

Have you heard of the Intersect? Orion had asked him that last night. Chuck had been stuck in one of his imaging sessions. He had been alone in their apartment. Somehow Orion had known.

Chuck's brow furrowed in frantic question. Bryce shook himself and nodded back.

Bryce sort of wished that he and Chuck weren't past the point of no return.

With each footfall Orion's words echoed through his head. The Intersect compresses data through subliminal imaging. All information on a subject is contained in a single image file. I built it.

He ducked around the corner, leading with his eyes and following quickly with his pistol. Matching Chuck's progress on the other side of the room, he moved quietly across the concrete floor in his socks.

It had been Chuck's idea to take off their shoes. Smart move.

Death. That was the important word that Orion had used.

Crates lined the ugly right angles of the dimly lit warehouse, casting strange shadows across the floor and creating frustrating nooks and crannies that would make great cover. Bryce slowly approached each one, becoming increasingly suspicious as each hallway of crates turned up empty.

With trepidation he approached the door at the far end of the room. He frowned (_too easy_) when Chuck arrived at the same door shortly after, apparently also having had no problems. He almost nodded towards the door to indicate that Chuck should enter first before the word death rang through his head again.

Instead he held up a single finger: _stay there_. The door could be wired to blow, so he kept to one side as he gently depressed the door's handle, keeping the action slow so as not to cause noise when the latch released.

Chuck pointed downwards gently. _If anyone is there, give them a smaller target_. Bryce crouched down as he fingered the door open an inch. For one stupid second, his gaze left the opening and focused on his friend.

The Intersect. A human host.

Every attempt made to integrate the Intersect with an agent has ended in that agent's death.

He looked back in the room.

A pair of bright blue eyes stared back at him.

Orion had called him yesterday. Why he had kept Orion's damn phone, aside from a sense of awestruck wonder at its incredible circuitry, was beyond him.

It hadn't mattered that he'd changed his e-mail address, his cell phone number, his computer's identification number, and his home phone number. It hadn't mattered that he had changed his mailing address from their D.C. apartment to a P.O. Box in Maryland. He had kind of wanted to change his name, but figured that might tip Chuck off.

It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Orion kept finding him.

He shut the door. Frantically. Chuck wouldn't have needed to have years of Bryce's friendship honed by months of CIA training to understand that action clearly meant _we're screwed_.

Chuck's eyebrows shot up. _Is there another entrance?_ Bryce shook his head at his friend.

According to their training mission specs, there were seven other trainees that they had to work against. They had taken down three, which meant they were outnumbered two to one.

And their enemy knew their position.

There were words for situations like this, but the only one Bryce could think of was "fuck."

Chuck, apparently, had other words on his mind. He pulled a large crate down and placed it a few feet in front of the door.

Chuck gave him an intense glare. _Copy me_.

I've declined to help you kick Chuck out, Bryce had told Orion. And what made Orion think that Bryce was going to change his mind now?

Death.

Every attempt has ended in death.

And they wanted Chuck.

Bryce copied his friend, and then furrowed his brow in Chuck's direction. _What the hell are we doing?_

Chuck leaned close to Bryce's ear, his lips barely moving. "We open the door and use the crates as cover. They'll probably waste a few darts before they realize."

It was a smart move. Chuck was full of those.

How could he just be sitting by as Chuck trained, grew better at his job, when it was going to end with his brain fried? Why was he not doing something? Telling Chuck?

Oh, hey buddy, what might be an insane supercomputer named Orion told me that the CIA is trying to put what might be a _different_ insane supercomputer in your head. But it will probably kill you, because it's killed everyone else that they've tried to put it in so far.

Right.

He opened the door from behind, so he could use the body of the door itself as cover for getting to his crate. As expected, a few darts shot through the doorway immediately, harmlessly embedding themselves in crates.

Instead of going to his crate, he waited. Footsteps made soft echoing noises as they headed towards the door. The trainees inside apparently had not taken off their shoes. As the figure came through the doorway, Bryce roughly shouldered the door closed, smashing the other man. The man's body crumpled, unconscious.

"What the hell was that, Bryce?" Chuck whispered from behind his crate.

"Improvising," he said easily. Devil-may-care was the best way to disarm Chuck's anger.

"I don't think we're supposed to be killing anyone during training, Bryce." Or maybe not.

"Are we really going to do the James Bond witty banter thing?" Movie references were Bryce's next weapon. "Because I think it's a little cliche at this point."

Chuck's reluctant silence brought a grin to Bryce's face. He chanced a look over at his partner and saw him close his eyes and steel himself for the next moment. If Bryce had to guess, he figured Chuck was envisioning _Duck Hunt _at the moment.

Two quick _thwwt_s and subsequent thuds meant that Chuck had taken down two of the other agents successfully.

For someone who didn't like guns, Chuck was actually a better shot than Bryce. Not that Bryce would ever tell him that.

He and Chuck both hesitated, waiting for the fourth agent to do something. Bryce chanced a look through the door and found nothing. He raised an eyebrow at Chuck (_you check?_) and after a quick glance into the room, Chuck gave a confused shrug back (_I got nothin'_).

Bryce went first, tip toeing over the body of the man he had slammed in the doorway. He glanced intently around the oval room, but saw no trace of the fourth agent. Desks and cabinets lined the far end of the room, and low-hanging fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, bathing the otherwise mundane room in a sterile glow. Other than that, a few pieces of metal furniture randomly dotted the room.

Maybe they had already taken out all seven agents.

He shrugged internally, reaching into the lock pick kit on the leg of his gear and approaching the only locked file cabinet near the desk. It was sure to house the data disc that was their goal.

"Looks clear, Chuck," he said without looking around. He got busy messing with the locks. The familiar adrenaline rush of successfully completing a mission with his best friend coursed through him, putting an unwitting smile on his face. They worked together seamlessly.

"Are you sure?" Chuck asked, though Bryce heard his friend stand up and enter the room. "I could have sworn there was a- AH!"

There was a sudden rustling sound, and a quick _thwwt_. Then a thud.

The lock gave way under Bryce's ministrations. "Sounds like you got him, buddy." He grabbed the data disc from inside, standing up and turning around with a wide grin.

Chuck lay on the floor, and the feminine, disguised figure of the fourth agent stood over Chuck's body. Like them, she was dressed in full, black tactical gear, though she had added a balaclava that was pulled over the defining features of her face.

Aside from the almost nonexistent rise and fall of his chest that indicated breathing, he looked dead. Death.

The Intersect is a computer at the heart of the Omaha Project. Orion's words. Compresses data through subliminal imaging. I built it. I didn't tell you because you were more concerned with assessing my motives than with why I was attempting to protect Chuck Bartowski. Find the Intersect a human host.

Chuck was basically River Tam.

They wanted Chuck. Chuck looked dead.

Through the slit of the balaclava, Bryce recognized the same blue eyes he had seen before.

She wasn't wearing shoes.

Smart move.

Two _thwwts_ later and Bryce quickly lost consciousness.

* * *

_November 17, 2003_

It was a picture of a gardenia.

"A turtle and a magician."

Click.

It was a picture of the Parthenon.

"A big ass gun, a tank, and some clouds."

Click.

It was a picture of Christina Applegate from _Married With Children_.

It was all incredibly boring.

"A map of Afghanistan. Or Kazakhstan. One of those smaller Middle Eastern countries. And a mansion."

Even if the science was, theoretically, really cool.

The projector clicked again, and in the half second between slides, nothing but the dim light that originated from the projector itself lit the all-white room that looked a bit like Morgan's game room. Though he hadn't seen it in almost a year.

It was a picture of a bumblebee.

It was Chuck's imaging session.

"A bottle of water, a city skyline, and a pack of cigarettes."

Click.

The electrodes dotted strategic places on his head, hooked up to a nearby brainwave monitor that Dr. Busgang watched intently, only ripping his eyes from the screen to jot down notes.

It was a picture of a cowboy.

Sometimes he wanted a Magic Eye 3D picture to show up so he could bemoan the fact that he couldn't see the sailboat.

"An opera house, an ugly painting, and a fat guy."

Identifying multiple subliminal images within a single displayed image was harder than only having to identify a single subliminal image. It required more concentration and, counterintuitively, more gut reaction.

Click.

A still from the movie _Moonraker_.

"A duck, the Grand Canyon, and the word blue colored red. That's a fun game."

Ellie used to give it to him when they were kids. Chuck smiled at the memory. He could still remember it perfectly, the word green in red, the word yellow in blue, the word red in yellow, the word blue in green.

You had to say the colors aloud instead of the words.

Busgang looked up. Chuck's smile dropped from his face.

Whatever. It _was_ a fun brainteaser.

"Last slide," Busgang said.

Click.

It was a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge.

"A stealth bomber, a picture of the President, aaand what I hope is a Georgia O'Keeffe painting."

That one got Busgang to smile just a little.

The imaging tests were to see how the brain decoded encrypted images. To try to discover the neural pathway or pathways that would indicate what parts of the brain were linked with the process.

So they could teach it to others.

Presumably.

This was the only part of the training in which he felt like he was doing well. Especially after his and Bryce's failure with the data disc retrieval thing.

Where had Bryce learned how to count to four?

"One hundred percent. Again." A congenial smile crossed Busgang's face.

"So, is my brain helping?" Chuck asked as the doctor leaned over him to begin removing the little white suction cups.

Busgang seemed to stiffen for a moment. "Immensely," he answered, clearing his throat awkwardly.

He had at least learned enough about evaluating a mark to know that Busgang's moment was a tell. But how do you broach something like that to a superior? Chuck's brilliant answer was to fidget in place.

Busgang continued removing the electrodes. Once done, the doctor took great care to put all of the neurological equipment away properly.

A few moments of silence passed before Chuck asked, "So, about Thanksgiving? And Christmas?"

Morgan was still upset about a Sand Worm-less Halloween.

Busgang hesitated again. "What?" he asked. Then, realizing, he relaxed. "Oh, yes, yes. The holidays. You'll have time off to visit family, yes. Though, of course, you can't-"

Chuck cut Busgang off, "Talk to them about anything remotely resembling what I'm actually doing with my life."

That was pretty bitter. He tried to cover it up by forcing a cough, but he caught a sympathetic smile at the corner of Busgang's mouth.

"Essentially, yes."

It was the need to justify himself to his superior that coaxed the next words out of Chuck's mouth. "Sorry. It's just... It's exhausting, not being able to talk to them."

It was exhausting talking to them, too.

Done with his work, Busgang sat down in the chair across from him. "I wouldn't know," the doctor admitted. "For scientists and analysts, their work is classified, but their lives aren't."

Chuck laughed ruefully. "Why did they ask _me_ to be a field agent?" It wasn't really a question.

Another flicker of an unidentifiable emotion crossed Busgang's face. "I suppose, because they saw something special in you."

"Like not making dumb moves?"

The doctor gave chuck a confused look. "I'm sorry, what?"

Chuck shrugged. It didn't matter. "Nothing. One of my instructors told me that it was good that I didn't make dumb moves."

That instructor didn't know shit.

Busgang nodded, but didn't offer any words in return.

At least when he called Ellie next he'd be able to tell her that he was coming home for Thanksgiving. He didn't know if either of them were ready for their first holiday season apart.

Hopefully Jill would be able to make it.

"We have one more imaging session. On Thursday," Busgang reminded him. As if he didn't know. "I'll see you then."

When Chuck didn't move beyond an acknowledging nod, the doctor stood up and moved to the room's exit.

"Lock up when you leave," the doctor said at the door.

The sentence probably had subtext, but Chuck wasn't interested in deciphering it.

"I will."

The doctor left. The door swung shut behind him.

For the first time in months, Chuck was left alone. It wasn't protocol to leave a trainee in a facility unsupervised, but since their last session's enlightened discourse over the sociological connotations behind _The Matrix_, Busgang seemed more at ease with him. Seemed to trust him.

It was nice to have trust from someone aside from Bryce.

Enough so to leave him without surveillance, and finally with the opportunity to show some intentional weakness. He figured he had shown enough unintentional weakness to last him his entire training.

He sighed, running his hands over his face.

Ellie's frustration would evaporate once she saw him. Devon's sympathy for her with it. Morgan would be reticent, but ultimately would be glad to see him. Jill would be there and they'd be happy or she wouldn't and they'd both say it was okay when it wasn't.

Bryce had told him that on their failed mission, the person who had got the drop on them hadn't been wearing shoes either. Smart move, he had said.

Chuck stood up, though why he did he couldn't say.

For a brief moment, Chuck considered just not going to Thanksgiving in Burbank. Visiting Bryce's family instead. Too busy. Too much work. Better to be close to his new home.

The smarter his moves got in D.C., the dumber they got in Burbank.

His fingers traced an abstract pattern against the wall where images had been projected just minutes ago. He could still see them, the turtle and the B-52 bomber and the word blue in the color red.

But he could barely remember the images that those subliminal pictures called home. Parallels.

Allowing himself one more pathetic moment of self-indulgence, he sighed heavily, drooping his shoulders, before he righted his posture and left the room. He flicked the light switch as he left.

Click.

* * *

**A/N: So, that was the beginning of part two. I decided to change up the writing style for this new chapter of Chuck's life, and I think it really kicked the intensity up a notch. I hope it did for all of you! As always, I have to give mad props to my wonderful beta, Ms. **_Frea O'Scanlin**. **_**She was all "You need to add scenery so people actually know what's going on." And I was like "Awwwwww. Do I haaaaaave toooooo." And she was like, "Yep." So I did. It is probably a good thing for you guys. I h****ope you enjoyed the chapter! TO THE REVIEWS.**

**onesmartgoalie: Poor manchild Morgan. He is just in a tough position. I'm glad you liked the chapter, and thanks for the review!**

**elle1630: Well, if I can make you not want to punch Jill in the face, that is something I can take pride in. Thanks so much for reviewing!**

**DamageReport: Thanks! Hope you enjoyed the other chapters as well, thanks for the review!**

**stayinthecar: Yeah, I pretty much based the party scene on both of those scenes you mentioned. I'm glad that I can make people who are not necessarily fans of Jill into people rooting for their relationship! Thanks for the review!**

**ChaosKid0: Hey, a new reader! I'm glad you liked the story enough to continue with it all the way! Thanks for all the reviews!**

**Ozlex: Yeah, I promise that I will not resort to "and then Bryce and Jill did it" as the way to break up these characters. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Fire From Above: Well, I hope that you'll continue to read even after their inevitable breakup. I'm glad you like the story and I thank you for continuing to review!**

**TeamBartowski: Jump up and down? C'mon, now, I am not worth jumping jacks. I'm glad you loved Morgan (how GREAT is he as comic relief?) and the last chapter. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Joe: I pretty much had to start the party scene with Devon and Chuck. It was the only real opportunity I'd have to get the two of them interacting by themselves, so I'm glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for the review!**

**Foxmac: Morgan is great for inadvertently doing stuff like that. Same with the Bartowskis, now that I think about it. I hope the beginning of training lives up to your expectations! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Pegasus0012: Awww, poor Jill. No bus just yet, I'm sorry! And Casey will be in at some point, don't fret. Thanks for the review!**

**jinxed97: That's kind of the Orion thing, though. I get that it's not exactly the best attribute for a person to have, but it is him. I'm glad you like Jill and Bryce in the story and I hope you continue to enjoy the story! Thanks so much for reviewing!**

**tshdow: Thank you for the review!**

**TSYldChild: What would that be called. Charkin? I don't know. I did wonder if some people would think that, though! I'm glad that you're enjoying the story so far, and I thank you for the wonderful feedback you've given!**

**BDaddyDL: Hey, I am a shipper, too. I am just taking my time to get there. :) I'm glad you like the story, and thanks for the review!**


	9. For Emma, Forever Ago

_December 9, 2003_

The Burbank beach was warm under Chuck's feet.

It really shouldn't have caught him off guard, but the beaches in D.C. were all cold and wintry, with frozen shorelines that turned into slush at the horizon. The ocean there was the same color as the November sky, and it looked vaguely like infinity. Here, the sand was white gold, the Pacific a rich blue compared to the Atlantic's muted gray, and the sky a clear burst of sunset colors. He had almost forgot what a real beach looked like.

The difference shouldn't have been so surprising, but it was.

He buried his toes deeper into the sand, noting idly that there were no stars here. There weren't stars in D.C. either, but sometimes his training took them to remote places, like the forest, and he could look up and see all those constellations he knew were up there but could only remotely identify, covered as they were by L.A.'s ambient light.

The waves lapped insistently on the shore, wafting a pungent saltwater scent in his direction. He took a deep breath, let it out as a sigh.

Guilt crept in over how good it felt to be away from Morgan and Ellie.

He pulled a candy bar out of the pocket of his windbreaker; he had starting keeping one within reach of all time.

What you have to remember is this, his instructor had said the day before he and the other recruits left for the holidays, there is no emotional reaction you can have that can't be chemically duplicated by chocolate.

It hadn't sounded right at the time, but Chuck was beginning to believe it now.

He took a bite and it tasted like an invigorating game of _Call of Duty_.

Boardwalk lights swirled around the winding shoreline, and the palm trees blew lazily against the light breeze. It was cold for California, Chuck knew, but it was so much warmer than D.C. that he almost felt sweaty under the long sleeves of his light jacket.

And the sand was still warm.

He was supposed to be helping to hang Christmas ornaments, putting up mistletoe, wrapping presents, decking the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la, la la la la. He was supposed to be making sure Morgan didn't sneak too much eggnog, or try to co-opt Devon's television for playing video games.

He was supposed to be laughing, probably.

Laughter is a product of surprise. His instructor again. If you laugh it means you aren't doing your job.

What they hadn't told Chuck was that you could be _not_ laughing and not doing your job.

The first time he had come to this beach, it had been with his mom. No Dad. No Ellie. No Morgan. Just him and his mom. They hadn't talked, they hadn't exchanged significant glances, they hadn't developed their own language of private jokes from that afternoon. They had just sat there- he remembered the wind had blown violently that day- and watched the waves and the shore slow dance.

It was a lot like this moment.

He took a bite of his chocolate bar and remembered his mom's charm bracelet.

A pair of children, laughing and kicking up sand at each other, skittered across the beach between Chuck and the water, followed by their parents. They were dressed in board shorts, all four of them, and somehow that made him miss combat boots and tactical gear.

I do _not_ understand how you go without this _awesome_ food, Chuckster. Devon.

Dude, I know we don't have to share a screen now, but a headset just has _not_ been a substitute for immediate interaction. Morgan.

It had added up.

His instructor had been terse and to the point: you recruits need to find an outlet for your emotions, or you will die. And you will bring down your fellow agents in doing so.

He remembered returning to consciousness after the tranquilizer darts had worn off and seeing Bryce's prone body carried by a pair of sturdy arms. Bryce had looked dead. His eyes closed, his body limp, Bryce had looked like Ken turned into a rag doll. You will die. You will bring down your fellow agents.

It had been his fault. He shouldn't have let Bryce enter the room without looking around. He shouldn't have taken Bryce at his word. He shouldn't have been so lackadaisical about how he carried his tranq gun.

He shouldn't have been a lot of things.

He was going to get Bryce killed.

Haven't you been missing Jill? She's coming up later tonight. Ellie had told him. Of course he had been missing Jill.

He had been a lot of things.

He was going to get himself killed.

He took another bite of chocolate and felt a bit like he did whenever Ellie smiled at him.

You have to understand what emotions are. Serotonin. Pheromones. Dopamine. Your brain is a chemistry set, with people as catalysts and yourself as an agent. Emotions act in a manner which is arbitrary and therefore meaningless.

It was another of those things that hadn't sounded right then, but Chuck was reconsidering now.

He took another bite of chocolate and smelled Jill's perfume.

I bet your lady has been missing you something _fierce_, buddy. Morgan again.

As if he needed reminding that their phone conversations sounded more and more distant and distracted. As if he needed reminding that he hadn't seen her (or touched her) in five months.

The waves grew a little more tumultuous. It was the kind of night that most Californians would have avoided, colder than normal and more than a little wind. But a couple months of snow and below zero temperatures made even the coldest California day sweltering in comparison.

Maybe he should have stayed out east. He wasn't even familiar with the western warmth anymore and the snow and cold had been exciting in its novelty. He had practically giggled the first day the stuff had come down, some random October morning. Bryce, Connecticut-born and more than used to the stuff, had groaned and begrudgingly attempted to show him snowmen and snowballs and snow angels, but the stuff was too soft and the weather still too warm for any of it to remain on the ground or in their hands for more than a few minutes. It wasn't the way an agents should have acted, but it had been a rare day off and he and Bryce embraced the opportunity to not give a damn how agents should have acted.

Bryce had wanted him to stay.

C'mon. My mom and dad would love to see you again. You haven't visited since sophomore year and my dad says that she's going to leave him soon for you if you don't come up there and appease her.

When he was in D.C., all he could think about was his life in Burbank. When he was in Burbank, all he could think about was his life in D.C.

His instructor had told him that for any one of them to become the perfect agent, they must purge themselves of all emotion. Like a Tibetan monk or a Spartan warrior.

Right before he left Ellie's for the beach, he had been holding an old ornament in his hand. It was translucent glass, frosted with snowflake-style decorations that circled the ornament's poles. It caught light, refracting it through the center, and tiny rainbows danced along its surface. It had reminded him of snow and songs about white Christmases, crackling fireplaces and hot chocolate. It had reminded him of a life he'd never have.

You miss this place? Ellie. It hadn't been a question, despite the upward lilt she put on the last word.

For whatever reason, that had been the his breaking point.

He had made some excuse, got in his car, and just drove. For whatever reason, he had returned to this beach, driving the car into its parking spot with a bit more violence than absolutely necessary, leaving his shoes on the driver's seat and letting the wind whip his button-down shirt and khaki pants against his body.

And as soon as he stepped onto the beach, he realized he _had _been missing this place. He had missed the palm trees, he had missed his family, he had missed his girlfriend, he had missed the weather.

And he had missed the sand. It still felt warm under his feet.

He exhaled, the noise rough and choppy past his lips.

Missing things, that was just chemicals inside his brain reacting to specific stimuli. The manner in which your emotions react is arbitrary and therefore meaningless. There is no emotional reaction you can have that can't be chemically duplicated by chocolate.

He took the last bite of his chocolate bar and it just tasted like chocolate.

* * *

_December 9, 2003_

Jill's hands splayed languidly across the muscles of Chuck's back, pulling down the skin that stretched across his shoulder blades. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck, softly kissing him right below his ear, tasting the light sheen of sweat that covered his body. Chuck's hands firmly gripped her torso right below the ribs, and she burned under his fingertips.

The felt far rougher than they ever had. The unfamiliarity was both glaring and engaging.

Knocking on the door to Ellie's apartment tonight had been exquisite anxiety. She had wondered if she had picked the right outfit, even though she knew it was his favorite. She had fiddled with her hair, trying to determine without a mirror if even a single strand was out of place. She tried finding her reflection on the outside of the door's keyhole so she could run out to her care and fix her makeup if even so much as a smidgen of blush had gone rogue.

Somewhere in the trip from the beach back to Ellie's apartment, the sheer physical animalism of seeing each other again had broken both of their wills. The backseat of a car in an abandoned parking lot was not where their reunion should happen, but when she shifted her hips slightly and heard a low moan rumble through Chuck's chest and vibrate her own, the "where" didn't seem to matter too much.

She gripped Chuck's body more tightly and tried to forget about Fulcrum and lockboxes and molecular biology.

Trying to sneak up on him at the beach, she figured he must have noticed the sound of her bare feet against the sand. He had looked over his shoulder and, before they made eye contact, he was downcast. His fingers twirled the remains of a empty candy bar wrapper that was folded and creased enough times for her to know that he had probably been fiddling with it for the better part of the last twenty minutes.

Once he recognized her, the wrapper disentangled itself from his fingers, fluttering away in the strong evening winds and then his eyes lit up.

In her car, they shifted so that he was on top of her, his face that had seemed completely impenetrable on the beach was open and smiling down at her, his hair slightly matted against his head. She ran her fingers through it, hoping her smile came off as soft as opposed to distracted in the dim light. Since Chuck leaned down to capture her lips in his own, she assumed that it had worked.

It had been the puzzle box that brought them here. The damn puzzle box Fulcrum had her working on.

Her eyes fluttered close as he grabbed her hip with one hand and maintained his balance with the other. Even when they had only just met, she had been as attracted to his intelligence and the rambling, flustered style in which he delivered it as she was his adorable curls and bashful good looks. With his brow furrowed both in exertion and in concentration, she was struck by both sides of him, his physicality- which had grown by drool-worthy leaps and bounds since he started working out with Bryce- and his mental acuity, and the hairs on her arm and neck stood on end.

She writhed rhythmically underneath him, moving her body in deliberate circles against him, and grinned wickedly at the sounds he made. Her fingers now mingled with the hairs of his chest, which felt soft in contrast to the now rigidly-defined muscles they decorated.

Her fingers had trembled earlier, when she had been taking off her clothes and his. The entire experience felt a bit like the first time they had been together, with its uncertain and awkward beginning. She hadn't even said anything to him when they had pulled into the parking lot, though she was certain he had figured it out from the dark, hooded look in his eyes. She had merely straddled him in the passenger seat, struggling with the buttons of her top until he had helped her with them. Then, when they had crashed, panting between furious kisses, into the backseat and she had moved to the belt and button of his jeans, her fingers wouldn't cooperate again, and Chuck's own seemed to have just as much trouble with her bra strap, a problem that they hadn't had in years.

It was wonderfully comforting that this felt so passionate. It was woefully concerning that this felt so foreign.

She had left San Jose early, left important lab experiments for another day, left her cell phone to ring away at home, left everything happening elsewhere in her life for exactly this: his hips angled perfectly between hers, his warm breath tickling her cheeks.

The drive down, all six and a half hours of it on I-5, consisted of banging her hands against the steering wheel in time to whatever was on the radio, tapping her foot next to the break pedal whenever cruise control was activated, and checking her mirrors constantly. As if she couldn't quite believe that she had these few days off to see Chuck again.

His hands traveled from her hips, all the way up her body. His lips continued the path from there up to her clavicle, her neck, her face, her lips. It kept her mind blank with sensory overload, kept her higher brain functions from puzzles and genetics. His tongue slipped into her mouth and massaged hers. It kept her from remembering her own name.

"Jill." Chuck exhaled the word, heavy with desire.

Oh yeah. That was it.

His body was heavier against hers, his new physique more dense and more confident. His arms were thicker than she could ever remember them being, and between his now calloused fingers she felt strangely delicate. Though she was petite, Chuck's gangly limbs and extremities had matched them physically. Now he seemed to cover her entirely.

It was like being with him for the first time. It was like being with a stranger.

He pulled away from her, just enough for them to make eye contact. He smiled, wide and toothy. She noticed that his teeth were whiter than she had ever seen them.

It was like seeing his smile for the first time. It was like seeing the smile of a stranger.

* * *

_December 9, 2003_

Jill watched Chuck talk as much as she listened to his words, absorbing the facial tics of his newly defined features. Her lip curled up playfully as her eyes darted between Chuck's face and the road.

"Fleming's head research scientist was telling me about neurotransmitters like dopamine and how human emotions were just chemicals." She caught him frowning, knew the thought had been troubling him for awhile. Was this what he had been so morose about on the beach? "Basically claiming that emotions in the brain are dictated by these chemicals."

Of course people looking at the brain as a computer would think that way. She only just restrained from scoffing. "Well, they are and they aren't."

Chuck's double take made her giggle. "Huh?"

"You're used to dealing with computers, Chuck. But the brain is more than a giant computer. A computer, when you put electricity through it, behaves the exact same way, every time. But the brain isn't like that." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, noting his furrowed brow as he gazed intensely out the front window. "You can run the same stimulus through the brain a hundred times and never have the same thing happen twice, because despite the fact that most of what is going on is happening in those neurotransmitters, that's not the _only_ thing going on." Her right hand found the inner crook of his left elbow across the console. "The brain isn't something that can be broken down easily and given a strict definition. And no matter how much you want to explain the things that it can do, sometimes you just can't."

Chuck's posture, which had been tense and coiled even in the parking lot, seemed all at once to unwind. It was in some ways a more intimate moment than what had happened in the back seat, which had been a purely physical reaction. Seeing his eyebrows relax, his facial lines go smooth, and his shoulders straighten, she finally felt like she recognized him. Being responsible for putting that look back on his face? Well, she kind of wanted to find another parking lot.

She slid her hand down from his inside elbow to his palm, grasping it gently. "You get too caught up in there." She freed her hand for a moment, just to tap his temple playfully. "When the answer is just waiting for you out here."

He smiled at her, wide and toothy. It looked exactly like she remembered.

"And I'll make sure the others quit taking subtle jabs at your absence."

His smile turned from its normal wattage to its full-powered Chuck glow, and she felt an intense pride in her chest. The sex had been necessary to get them to this point emotionally, but it seemed now like merely a precursor to getting on the same page, like crib notes to rediscovering the well-worn paths in their relationship.

And Chuck talking so candidly about something that was obviously deeply affecting him showed how, despite his physical changes, he was still very much the same boy from Encino who had grown a bit too fast, had learned a bit too quickly, and trusted a little too much. She felt like the least she could do was to repay the favor.

"Hey, so, some of my coworkers like puzzles as much as I do-"

"As much as you?" Chuck interrupted. "I find that hard to believe."

"Shush," she admonished with a grin. "I'm coming to you, sacrificing my pride, for help. Don't hold it over me."

"Alright, alright. I'm listening."

"Anyway." She shifted back and forth in her seat to express an exaggerated sense of annoyance, to Chuck's apparent chagrin. "As I was trying to say, before I was so rudely interrupted. I'm attempting to come up with a puzzle box that might stump them. And I've got an idea, but I'm a little stuck."

"Okay?" he prompted.

Her adjustment of the driver's seat was surely a tell of her nerves, but she was thankful that Chuck would never be the type to notice something like that.

"So, of course, it can't use electronics. And I want it to be layered, you know? Not just you solve one part of the puzzle and you get the d- prize." She couldn't believe that she had almost let that slip. "And I want it to be small, too. Portable. Something someone can take with them and solve in their own time."

"Whoa, you've been thinking a lot about this."

She blushed at his compliment. She always did. "I have. I think I've got the first part figured out. It'd be like a Rubik's Cube, but instead of matching colors, it'd be a bit like Sudoku, where each side of the square had to correspond to the digits one through nine."

"That's kind of incredible." A beat. She glanced over and saw that his tongue was pushing against his cheek, a sign of him being deep in thought. "The Rubik's cube would have to act as a key of some sort," he said. "Otherwise you'd be messing up whatever was going inside with all that moving around."

God, his brains were sexy. She had to bite down a bit on her lower lip to keep from trying for a round two.

He continued, oblivious, "You could have a single cube spring-loaded for the pieces aligning properly. You'd take it out and it would be a key."

_He_ was the kind of incredible one.

"What would the key do?" she asked, curious about where his imagination would take her project.

She chanced looking at him once more in her peripheral. He had both of his lips drawn in, another one of his deep thought tells. It was ridiculously adorable.

After a few seconds, he began speaking slowly, as if testing out the idea as he was speaking it. "The key could slide along a line, with five notches. In each notch, the key would to be turned a specific number of times, in accordance with the Fibonacci Sequence."

Not even noticing, Jill shook her head in awe. It was these moments, moments where they could bounce ideas off each other on topics from video games to Greek history, that she missed the most.

"You're amazing," she said. It was really all she could say to him sometimes.

He smiled warmly at her and Jill hoped that she'd never lose him.

* * *

_January 4, 2004_

Bryce wished he could say that his breathing was heavy and labored because Chuck was giving him an adequate fight.

That wasn't the case.

Bryce threw a left hook at Chuck's kidney. The taller man's block exposed his stomach, and Bryce let the hook hit Chuck's block only to follow up the strike with a solid body blow with his right hand. Chuck let out a loud "Ooomph" and doubled over. He still had the presence of mind to push Bryce violently away before Bryce could land another solid punch.

The holidays had been boring without Chuck. No missions with his friend. No challenges. No adrenaline rush.

The holidays had been amazing without Chuck. No flashes of his friend dead, his brain fried. No worries. No adrenaline rush.

Chuck's right jab was too far away for Bryce to concern himself with so he was able to step towards Chuck as the jab retracted, meaning Chuck's permanent follow-up, the left hook, sailed behind his head. Inside Chuck's arms, Bryce was able to land some sharp, short strikes to the body. He stepped between Chuck's legs for a textbook take-down, and there was a dull thud as the Californian's back hit the padded floor.

Bryce sweated simply because of how long they had been fighting. They had agreed that they wouldn't stop until the facility closed or Chuck had taken Bryce down, even once.

Closing time wasn't far off.

A heavy door slammed.

"Trainees Larkin, Bartowski?" Agent McKenzie's voice rang out loud in the small dojo.

Bryce stepped away from Chuck, who slapped his palms to the floor in frustration as he pulled himself to his feet.

Hand-to-hand combat had not been going well for Chuck, which was as disappointing as it was relieving.

"Agent McKenzie?" Bryce asked.

McKenzie nodded at Bryce first, then at Chuck. "Word from Graham. He's unhappy Trainee Bartowski's hand-to-hand progress. He's requesting a more seasoned trainee, one who has scored top marks in the area, to take over his training."

"They're putting Chuck with someone else?" Bryce asked. Chuck was asking the same question with his eyes, but he was breathing too hard to actually voice the words.

"That's correct."

"They don't think I can do it?" Bryce was indignant, even if there _was_ a small part of him that saw Chuck's failure as a way to push him from the CIA's ranks.

"That's not the issue." McKenzie's gaze towards Bryce was absolutely unflappable. "The issue is that, given current projections, Trainee Bartowski's skill at hand-to-hand combat will be unacceptable to work in the field."

That pronunciation was both a shock and a thrill. He kept both expressions off his face, instead opting for frustration. "_And_ they don't think I can train him."

Bryce was acutely aware that his staring match with McKenzie had become a pissing match by this point.

"Bryce, the man is right." Chuck's voice broke the stare down between the two men. "This isn't working. Maybe someone else can offer a different perspective on it. At the very least I'll learn how to fall in new and exciting ways."

Bryce managed to temper his desire to stamp his feet or snap "Fine" by reminding himself of exactly how petulant doing either would look. "When would this new trainer start?" He didn't have the strength to corral the bitter cold out of his voice.

"She's here now, actually," McKenzie said, his face inscrutable.

Faintly he heard Chuck's weak protestation of "_She?_" Louder than that, however, was the slam of the training facility's door. His gaze immediately moved in that direction.

The first thing he noticed were the bright blue eyes, the same exact ones that had stared at him during the data disc retrieval failure.

The second thing he noticed- and he really shouldn't have been surprised- was that it was Sarah Walker.

* * *

**A/N: So I thought I was being all subtle and sneaky in chapter eight with my Sarah cameo, but just about everyone **_**immediately**_** picked up on it. So, yes, that was Sarah in Bryce's scene in chapter eight. And, meanie that I am, I made her official introduction to the story a cliffhanger. Sorry about that (I'm not really sorry about that at all, hehehe).**

**As always, credit must be given to the amazing **_Frea O'Scanlin_ **for her beta of this chapter. This chapter literally looks nothing like the original outline, and it looks almost nothing like the first draft (about 2/3rds of it was **_**completely**_** rewritten). And it's only by her prowess and intelligence that this chapter came out anything more than half-baked.**

**Finally, the Awesome Awards are open for voting, everybody! If you head to the Chuck forums, click on the TWoP Kicked Us Out forum, you'll see the list of categories you can vote upon, and the guidelines for voting will be the top thread on the page. Round one of voting closes soon, so vote for your favorites in each category! NOWTOTHEREVIEWS**

**FoofyChuck: You figured it out RIGHT AWAY. I was both sad that I hadn't fooled anyone and happy that I had such clever readers. Glad you liked it, and thanks for the review!**

**Nautica7mk: Bryce is really the character, aside from Chuck, who is getting and will continue to get the most "screen time" in this story. He's a really interesting character in my opinion, even more so here. I'm glad you're liking the story so much, thank you for reviewing.**

**zipfe: Oh, ninja-girl. I've teased you with even more of her ninja-ing ways now! Thanks for reviewing!**

**vinh: You called it! Thanks for the review!**

**TeamBartowski: I hope this chapter was up to snuff with chapter eight for you! I'm glad you (and everyone else, including **_Frea_**)** **loved the way I introduced Sarah. I'm flattered as always by your compliments. Thanks so much for all the reviews.**

**ChaosKid0: Thanks!**

**Foxmac: Yep, mis tranq darts was indeed Sarah. I'm glad you liked her entrance, as well as the characterizations as Bryce and Chuck. Casey will be coming, I promise! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Joe: Well, I changed my mind and I didn't. My beta, Ms. **_Frea O'Scanlin_ **pointed out to me that Sarah would not yet be to her Red Test at this point, so she'd still be a trainee. Still, the fact is that she has a year of full-time training and four years of part-time training under her belt over Bryce and a year more than that on Chuck, so she's not really training WITH them, if you catch my meaning. Glad you liked it, and thanks for the review!**

**JohnClark43: Slam poetry? Ouch! Ah, well. I can see what you mean, and I think it was toned down a bit for this chapter, but the fact is that this writing style allows me to tell more story in less space, and it lends a certain urgency to the action that befits the situations. I hope you liked this chapter better! Thanks for the review!**

**Drogonan: Which switch were you talking about? The second scene itself or something different? I'm glad you liked the chapter and, I agree with you, **_Frea_ **has**_** vastly**_** improved my work. Hope this one lived up to your expectations! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Pegasus0012: You're about to get your wish, sir! :) Thanks for reviewing!**

**My Lady Vader: I like Bryce, too, though he has his haters in this fandom certainly. And hey, first official Sarah appearance right here! Hope you liked it! Thanks for the review!**

**onesmartgoalie: No Project Omaha just yet, but we'll be back there soon. I promise! Thanks for the review.**

**DamageReport: Yes, yes it was. I'm glad you liked this style more! Thanks so much for reviewing!**

**tw200: You're right in thinking that Chuck doesn't really understand what the tests on him are for. He just accepts them because there are a lot of things you just have to accept in that world. And, to answer your question, Chuck has no idea bout Orion right now. Glad you liked it and thanks for reviewing.**

**Fire From Above: I hope he can get better at the agent stuff, too! And I'm glad that you'll stick around with the story. I hope I can make it worth your while. Thanks, as always, for reviewing.**

**Lord of All: Chuck is a clever guy. Like Casey says in Other Guy, "Before all this, you were smart." Without the Intersect, Chuck needs to apply those smarts to his training. Thanks for reviewing!**

**zp3of7: You really NAILED all the subtle things that I tried to communicate in chapter eight, so thank you so much for that! It's great to see people pick up on these things. Thank you for your review!**

**jinxed97: And you get yet another teaser of her here. Thanks for reviewing!**

**jayley: As I said before, I like Bryce and his conflict as well. It's definitely a big influence on this story. I'm glad you're enjoying my fic and hope you continue to! Thanks for the review!**

**DanaPAH: As always, your feedback is really appreciated. You've really nailed my intentions for these characters, and to be in your top ten of favorite Chuck fics is a great honor. To answer to some of your comments: the instructors are kind of working them up to real guns, though Chuck will have to do certification to start working with actual firearms. I wish Bryce would do the right thing, too, but does he ever, really? And I am stamping this one out right now, because it'll just be more disappointing later if I don't: No Sarah and Chuck in Infiltration and Inducement. Sorry, guys, but it's just toooooo obvious. As far as Chuck being left alone in the lab being important? Maybe, maybe not. I haven't decided yet. Like I said, I'm glad you like this fic and I thank you so much for reviewing!**

**xx-crispy-mnms-lover-xx: Firstly, great user name. Secondly, thanks for the review!**


	10. You Forgot It In People

_May 7, 2004_

They were dancing, in their way.

Over the four months that Chuck had trained with Sarah Walker, their battles had become more like intricate choreography. Their footwork formed a call and response, like a tango. Chuck's foot would retreat, only for Sarah's to take its place. His leg would intrude upon the path of hers, and she would pirouette gracefully around it.

He noticed that her hair had come undone from its tight bun, and little wisps caught the breeze rushing in from the facility's open windows, looking like bits of yellow ribbon.

Their first training session had been an unmitigated disaster. Bryce had said something to Sarah, pissed her off. Then Chuck's first sentence to her had been, "You know, I don't really feel, um, comfortable, fighting a girl- woman, I mean. Woman. I don't feel comfortable fighting a woman because, well..." And he was was sure that hadn't helped. Chuck had learned pretty quickly that pissing Sarah Walker off was not something he was ever interested in doing again.

Now she was the closest thing he had to a friend besides Bryce.

With Bryce growing more and more distant everywhere except training missions, she was the only one he could talk to about this world.

Advance. Retreat. Prime. Spin. Forward. Backward. He shuffled away from Sarah's kick, keeping his distance as he did so and preventing any sort of effective counterattack. When she moved backwards, Chuck recognized it as a feint and refused to advance. She frowned, moving in a lazy circle around the mat, forcing him to mirror her movement to maintain that distance between them.

If he concentrated on just the wisps of her hair, he could mistake her for a ballerina.

You're allowing me to dictate the fight. That was her first lesson to him. If your opponent wants to brawl, don't. If they want to grapple, don't. Know your strengths and find a way to use them.

He kept his shoulders squared with his waist, adjusting his body so his dominant arm faced Sarah. He bent his knees slightly to facilitate movement, kept on the balls of his feet and evenly distributed his weight for speed, and reined in his elbows so they remained close to his body. Fundamentals. Attack stance.

Ellie and Devon were graduating soon. Becoming honest-to-God doctors. People were going to be putting their lives in his sister's hands. Which seemed to Chuck to be a pretty good idea.

Sarah smiled a teacher's smile at him and it reminded Chuck of the differences that still remained between their skill levels. Where his feet made obvious indents in the red padded wrestling mats that decorated the training area, she seemed to walk on air, leaving nothing in her wake. Where droplets of sweat fell from his nose, her skin seemed only to glow under the fluorescent lights.

She was paler than Jill.

"Did I mention I have a girlfriend?" Chuck had asked her that first day they met, nervous as he always was around new people and trying to avoid being put in any position where he would have to possibly hit a girl. "A very pretty girlfriend who I am very dedicated to and who would be really, really unhappy with me even being this close to a decidedly attractive blond. She has this thing about me with blondes."

"Chuck?" Her voice had been deathly still. "I'm here to _train_ you." And Sarah Walker proceeded to beat the hell out of him.

She called it training.

He called it two dozen deep tissue bruises.

They rotated around each other for a few moments more, before Sarah went on the offensive. The key to blocking quick attacks is to focus on the joints. He concentrated on her elbows, stepping into and away from her body to keep her off balance enough to where she couldn't throw a kick.

He stepped in, she stepped away. She stepped to one side and he matched her. Their hands moved in complex, elegant patterns that carved paths of abstract shapes through the air. One of her arms found a way past his and he leaned back, watching it pass through the air that his head occupied a moment ago. When Chuck grabbed her other wrist in an attempt to pinion one arm behind her back, she cartwheeled out of his grip, those loose tendrils of hair spinning a wide circle through the air.

Even after four months, he still didn't hit girls.

She landed silently, her feet darting out from her loose-legged samurai workout pants. She had taught him to watch for his opponent's feet, as they would tell him where his dance partner was going. Then she wore bottoms that obscured them. Two steps back. One step to the right. Her smile at him was playful. One step forward. Your biggest advantage in any fight is going to be your wingspan, she had told him. You should be able to dictate when and where the fight comes to you, keep your opponent at a distance. Chuck mirrored all of his dance partner's steps, staying just out of her reach.

They had worked on his footwork two months ago. It had been a grueling lambada session of alternately arched and stretched legs, of precise foot placements and _allegro_ toe taps. All while keeping his upper body in the guard position, a merengue from the waist down. They were mimicking that lesson now, the steps all ingrained in muscle memory. Counting the beats in his head, not so much in musical time as in the ebb and flow rhythm of battle.

The compromise they had come to was grappling. Because, despite Sarah's protestations, he just _wasn't_ hitting a girl. She taught him about using the distance he could create to attack his opponent's extremities. He was trained to viciously twist an ankle from a kick, or bend a hand backwards from an attempted punch. It had worked mostly because Chuck knew that his attacks were too slow, and that even if he was somehow able to grab Sarah's leg, she'd pull off one of her crazy ninja moves learned straight from Jet Li, no doubt.

Truthfully, he was only marginally better at hitting his target. Where he had really improved was not getting hit himself. At least when he fought Bryce now, he could see the frustration on his friend's face at being unable to turn their fight into a close quarter brawl.

The second _Matrix_ movie might have sucked, to the disappointment of both him and Dr. Busgang, but the line about knowing someone through fighting them made sense to him now in a way it never had before. The wordless communication between him and Bryce had improved by leaps and bounds over the past four months, to the point where they barely looked at each other at all. A twitch in Bryce's leg or a flicker in his eyes was all Chuck needed to understand what to do next.

Sarah sneaked into striking range with some deft footwork, rudely interrupting their carefully arranged give and take. Chuck felt a frown grow; Sarah was pressing the issue. A palm strike flew towards his face, but he was quick enough to grab her palm, redirecting her arm's momentum backwards in an attempt to leverage her elbow. Stuntwoman that she was, Sarah adjusted for Chuck's temporary advantage with a standing back flip. More of her hair came undone from her bun, trailing behind her like golden smoke.

Learning about your opponent through battle applied to Sarah, too. Predilections toward certain attacks betrayed certain emotions. An _accelerando _or _ritardando _of their carefully crafted pace communicated frustration or deadly focus. When she didn't let up on her attacks, she was teaching. When she took her time to land one particular strike, she was angry. She said more with actions than she ever did with words.

Sarah landed her flip, following that landing with a quick roundhouse that Chuck only just avoided. The reverse roundhouse caught him off guard, and he had to jump back quickly and inelegantly to avoid it, ruining the precision of their dance steps. He centered his gravity after a moment of imbalance, finding his way back to the rhythm.

He found it easy to lose himself in the precise movements, because it was like taking a test he knew the answers to. Sarah's feet would dictate the movements of his own. Her elbows decided the path of his arms. Her knees, the angle of his body. He could watch the wisps of her hair and think of nothing else but _not getting hit_.

He could ignore the fact that he wouldn't make it to Ellie and Devon's graduation, that he no longer played video games with Morgan, that Jill's voice now always sounded as if it were on speakerphone regardless of how closely her mouth was to the receiver, that Bryce bounced back and forth from friend to stranger.

He could just concentrate on their dance.

* * *

_June 11, 2004_

Deliberate.

It was a word Sarah had often heard used to describe her.

She took her time pulling the trigger of her SIG P226. Deliberate. She took in the feeling of the smooth steel against her finger. She had a particularly rough callus on that finger that deadened most of the touch response associated with firing her weapon, the result of years of firearm training. So she took her time pulling the trigger back, memorizing the feeling that changed as the callus hardened. After a year of using her SIG, she was prepared for the roar of the bullet flying out of the barrel, mostly silenced by the large headphones she wore, and had compensated easily for the 226's relatively low kickback.

The bullet ripped through the paper at the far end of the shooting range exactly where she had aimed.

Accurate.

It was another word Sarah had often heard used to describe her.

"See, when _I_ do firearms training, I always like to try and give the guy a smiley face." Chuck had said that to her after one of their training sessions. She had laughed. She smiled now, then frowned at herself for the tangential thought.

Her father had his conman manifestos about pigs getting fat and hogs getting slaughtered, she had her CIA rules. The most important of which was simply, "No distractions."

She ignored the fact that her target now sported a hole where an eyeball would be.

She ignored the fact that she hadn't thought about her father in a long time.

No distractions.

She took a deep breath that felt heavy and stale on her tongue. The concrete cube always burned with the expunged gases of firearms, and she could taste the carbonic acid and nitrogen that lingered in the air. With no absorptive materials in the room, all of those chemicals hung for what felt like forever and made the room dank and oppressive. For whatever reason, even with all the lights on, it still seemed dark. So different from the facility where she trained Chuck, where it always seemed like it was high noon.

"So, tranq anyone else and their best friend today?" Chuck had liked asking her ridiculous questions.

Sarah steadied her stance again. She brought the gun to bear and tried to lose herself in the physical details. Feet shoulder width apart. Dominant foot slightly in front. Lean into the gun. Keep the trigger arm locked, and the grip arm slightly bent. Present a narrow profile. A proper shooting stance and a proper fighting stance weren't so much similar as much as they were echoes, applying the same principles of balance and quickness to different tasks.

Agile. Another word she'd heard.

She pulled the trigger again, using the same motion, but this time more quickly. The retort and recoil of the gun felt warm and familiar. Sarah had found that the best way to learn a skill was to perfect it at the slowest possible speed, then methodically work that speed up to real time. If a shot went wide, it didn't do to simply attempt the shot again. Instead, it was best to break down the motion into its component parts, finding and correcting which of them was throwing the whole act awry, then building the speed back up, minus the faulty piece.

The bullet tore through the paper vena cava.

"So, who are you, Sarah Walker?"

One of her father's little proverbs was about the person most needing to believe a lie was the person telling it.

She had laughed, acting a bit surprised at the question. It was only to be expected with how much time she and Chuck were spending on his hand-to-hand training. The surprise had been a lie, but she had believed it.

"Who am I?" She had looked at him out of the corner of her eye, smiling back at his grin. "That's a little existential for having just finished two hours of combat training."

Chuck had shrugged in response. It hadn't been an answer, but he hadn't pressed the issue.

For whatever reason, the question had nagged at her. She wasn't sure if she knew how to answer it. She wasn't sure if she understood why she felt the need to. So, who are you, Sarah Walker? The most logical way to determine it, Sarah figured, was to look at the words others- her instructors, her peers- had used to describe her. She was deliberate. She was accurate. She was agile.

None of it meant anything.

She fired again. If she concentrated enough, she could almost feel the bullet traveling through the chamber, the way it vibrated for just a fraction of a second across her hands. That vibration then rattled through her arms and into her shoulders before her center mass distributed and dissipated the physical reaction. The noise- the tiny sonic boom the bullet made breaking the sound barrier- wasn't nearly as loud under the earphones as her thoughts.

The target's kidney burst into confetti.

Professional. Another word that didn't mean anything.

"You know, Bryce and I are celebrating the completion of my unarmed combat training." Chuck told her this during the cool down after their last grueling session, an application of all of the skills she had taught him. They were trading sips from her water bottle and she could kind of taste him on the cap. "Wanna come?"

"Oh, that's a time for friends," she had said, dismissive.

He had looked at her sidelong and she felt a bit warm under his scrutiny. Outside of training, his standard facial expression seemed to be an etched grin that revealed the long laugh lines of his face. Seeing the intensity he put into his footwork transferred to her made her fidget uncomfortably.

"I know."

She had continued as though she hadn't heard the softly spoken declaration, but she had. "And, besides, we know how your girlfriend feels about you and blondes."

She saw him school his features. She knew she shouldn't have felt bad, but she did.

Deflective. Another word.

"Right," Chuck had said once, then again with more enunciation. "Right."

Another of her father's truisms was about telling one lie you knew a hundred times instead of one hundred lies once.

Sarah pulled the trigger again, the speed of her finger against the mechanism at roughly seventy-five percent, the necessary movement simply a matter of muscle memory. Her bullet tore through the paper heart of the target. Her shooting form hadn't changed in awhile. It had taken her roughly six months of training to adjust to the subtle differences in the SIG P226 compared to the Beretta 92 she had used previously.

The SIG was the pistol issued by the Secret Service.

As soon as Chuck's hand-to-hand combat had risen to acceptable levels, she had been reassigned. Secret Service training. To be followed by a year of Presidential duty, then her Red Test, then International Ops as an full-fledged agent. The rest of her life, planned out in increasingly fatalistic increments. A parallel of her life before the CIA, which had been planned out in increasingly profitable increments.

Usually, she didn't think about the future or the past. No distractions. Now, she couldn't stop thinking about that damn question.

Telling herself that she was only distracted by the question was a lie, but she believed it.

So, who are you, Sarah Walker? She could have asked Chuck the same thing. Who was Chuck Bartowski that he got her pulled from field training to teach him how to spar? Who was Chuck Bartowski, that he had occasionally been taken from their sessions for something Chuck only referred to as "Imaging?" Who was Chuck Bartowski that he was almost preternaturally gregarious every time she saw him, regardless of whether he seemed ready to collapse from physical vigor or not? Who was Chuck Bartowski that he was the primary, and maybe only, candidate for the mysterious Omaha project? If he was confused by her reticence, it paled in comparison to how confused she was by his openness.

"So, was CIA training, like, your first post-secondary option? Because, I mean, I didn't see that booth at career day, but..." After three weeks, their half-hour cool down sessions had been extended to an hour. Most of that extra time was spent seated, their backs on the same wall, their bodies separated first by both of their duffel bags, then just Chuck's, then nothing but a short distance which they occupied with frequent swaps of Sarah's Nalgene bottle.

She had smiled as much as she could manage at that question. "It made sense." She took a swig of her bottle, holding it out to him as she asked, "You?"

The question made his perpetual grin fall. For whatever reason, the fact that Chuck wasn't an unending fount of positivity reassured her.

"Well, you know... actually I have no idea." He laughed and Sarah had heard his usual self-deprecation in it. He took a small sip before continuing. "I'm not sure how my performance at Stanford led anyone to believe I'd be even adequate doing, um, this."

"You're doing more than adequate, Chuck." Chuck's self-pity was usually best headed off as soon as it began.

He looked at her. "Thanks," he had said, though Sarah could tell that he remained unconvinced. She took the water bottle he offered back to her. He looked away, a telltale sign that he would elaborate with a little push. When he looked back at her, she raised a single eyebrow. It worked flawlessly. "It's just... Like, even from the beginning, Bryce didn't want me to-"

She cut him off with a derisive laugh. "Chuck, I know he's your friend, but don't put too much faith in what he says. I understand that you trust him and you look up to him, but you need to stand on your own to make it in this world. You two may be training as partners, but any sort of co-dependency that evolves is only going to hurt both of you as agents."

Chuck's eyes had widened and Sarah kind of wanted to bury her head in sand. Talkative wasn't a word Sarah had ever heard used to describe her. It was uncharacteristic, and remembering it just caused Chuck's damn question to echo loudly through her thoughts now. So, who are you, Sarah Walker?

She fired once, twice, three times, cutting away a lethal cluster of holes in the target's stomach.

She took her eyes off of her target for just a moment, attempting to shake the thoughts loose from her head. No distractions.

Focused. Another word.

Her dad had a saying about the best lie being the truth. Or, at least, that was how he justified the con where she was supposed to be faking a broken arm, but had actually fractured the damn thing. When had the lie that was Sarah Walker become the truth? She wasn't Jenny anymore. Wasn't Katie or Rebecca. She _certainly_ wasn't Samantha. Somewhere between throwing a knife at Langston Graham and throwing Chuck Bartowski over her shoulder, the lie had become the truth. She had become Sarah Walker.

So, who are you, Sarah Walker?

She gritted her teeth and reaimed her weapon. She pulled the trigger full speed once, twice, three, four, five times. The slide on the SIG popped open, indicating the end of the magazine. Sarah took a moment to look over her last shots. Head. Neck. Liver. Heart. She paused a bit before she acknowledged where the last shot went. The opposite eye.

What was it about Chuck Bartowski that simply wouldn't listen to "No distractions?"

"Sarah! You made it!" It had only been about nine in the evening when Sarah had stepped into the dimly lit sports bar, packed with people watching the Flyers and the Lightning, but she could tell Chuck had been drinking for at least a couple of hours. He wasn't drunk, but his movements hadn't been as sharp as she was used to. Then again, she was used to scrutinizing every subtle tell in his movement, so maybe she was judging him too harshly. He walked over to her and, without warning, scooped her up in a hug. Her first instinct had been to break his hold, head-butt him, and go on the offensive against her attacker. When she heard Chuck's joyful laugh, she tentatively responded with a pat on the back.

"I did," she had said after Chuck put her down. "Congratulations, Chuck."

"Yeah! Thanks!" He was entirely in his element, she noticed. His level of concentration may have been down, but she doubted anything could so much as unnerve him here. "When do you ship out?"He had to keep yelling because the noise coming from the crowd watching the game was so loud.

"Saturday." She was still going to be in the area, but the fact that both of them would have limited time outside of their training made that point moot.

"Okay, well, that gives you a day to recover from the hangover." Chuck's smile had been devious, and it had been so out of character that Sarah had almost laughed.

"I'm _not_ getting drunk with you and Bryce, Chuck." She noticed that Chuck had somehow maneuvered the pair of them further down the bar from Bryce without her noticing. Chuck's friend didn't seem to mind, engaged as he was in conversation with an attractive redhead.

Looking back, Sarah knew she should have ended the night right there. She should have politely smiled and made some excuse. She should have adhered to her policy of no distractions. Instead, when Chuck simply said, "C'mon," and that one word had made him seem so much like a college kid that Sarah had to smile, she listened to her father's voice talking about how you only live once per identity.

"You have to try this drink Bryce and I got named after us. It's called Barkin' Mad."

It took her a beat to get it, but when she did she laughed louder than she had in a long time. "You two got a drink named after you? And it's called 'Barkin Mad'?" The repetition, and Chuck's sheepish smile, only fueled her mirth.

"Hey, this thing is not to be taken lightly, okay? Hey, Danny!" Chuck high-fived a random bar patron that had slapped him on the back, then turned back to her. "You ever had a Depth Charge?" She cocked her head curiously. "No? Well, it's when you drop a shot of whiskey in a pint of Guinness and you have to chug it before it curdles." She must have frowned or something, because Chuck laughed. "It's actually pretty good." Another guy had walked by Chuck, playfully ruffling his hair. "Thanks, Mike," Chuck said sardonically to the man's retreating back. "Anyway, our drink is the same thing, but with a Black and Blue instead of just Guinness. It's really good, and it doesn't curdle quite so fast." He turned to the bar just as a spot became open.

"Joe!" he had yelled at the bartender.

"Chuck! What can I do you for?"

"Two Barkin' Mads, barkeep." Chuck slapped his money down on the table.

Joe had smiled, pushing the cash back at him. "Chuck, you and Bryce spend enough here in a week to keep this place running for a month. This one's on me. Besides, what kind of bartender would I be if didn't let the pretty girls have a free drink every once in awhile? What's her name, Chuck?"

Sarah had smiled- she had _been _smiling quite a bit- when Chuck rolled his eyes. He had grabbed hold of her wrist and his drink and started to navigate them through the sea of people who all seemed to know his name. "What was that, Joe?" Chuck feigned difficulty hearing. "I can't hear you. It's too loud in here! We're going over into the other room!"

"My name's Sarah!"she had offered, tipping her drink towards him, though she was as unsure if Joe heard her as she was about why she was allowing Chuck to basically hold her hand.

As soon as they set foot into the other room, a cheer of "Chuck!" rose up from a nearby table. Dropping Sarah's hand, he cheerfully turned to the group that had addressed him. "Guys! What's up!" Turning towards Sarah, he gestured her closer. "Sarah, this is Mark, Chris, Ashley, Derek and Jess. Guys, this is Sarah." They greeted her with about as much enthusiasm as they had greeted Chuck. "Alright, I'm gonna go grab Bryce. We'll be back over, okay?"

As they walked back towards Bryce, Sarah couldn't stop herself from asking, "Do you know _everyone_ in this bar?"

Chuck laughed. "It seems like that sometimes. We're here pretty often."

She had wanted to ask him how he focused, with all of that going on in the background of his mind. How he could have room for impeccable footwork _and _bartender names, for marksmanship _and _custom drink orders. How he could work so hard at becoming an agent with all of those distractions.

"You're going to have a good time tonight." His smile had been absolutely certain.

Looking around the shooting range now, Sarah sighed. She sat down at the bench, placing her spent firearm next to her. Chuck had been right. At that bar in D.C., she had a good time. And ever since she couldn't stop thinking about her father's proverbs, the words people had used to describe her, the suddenly innumerable distractions that had cut through her simplest rule, and Chuck's innocuous question. So, who are you, Sarah Walker?

She picked up her SIG and started to clean it.

* * *

**A/N: And with that, Sarah is gone again. I know, I'm freaking evil. I'm sorry! It's necessary to the story as a whole, I promise! She comes back! I swear it!**

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Anyway, this was by far the hardest chapter to write of the whole story thus far. It took me about four or five tries to get Sarah down exactly how I wanted her. I actually posted a lengthy scene on the Google Group of the first lesson between Chuck and Sarah, but it was so not in keeping with the tone of Twist that it had to be relegated to GG status.

**As always, so much thanks has to go to my wonderful beta, **_Frea O'Scanlin__**. **_**She put up with endless postulations of how I should approach this chapter and I'm sure it was only through sheer force of will she didn't shout "JUST WRITE THE DAMN THING" at me. Second, much love to **_mxpw_ **for his additional beta work on the chapter. He cleaned up a lot of needless babbling. ****And I've got to give one last shout out to **_Wepdiggy_**, who allowed me to get Sarah's scene rolling with some great details about shooting ranges. Without any of them, I'd have never finished this damn chapter.**

**Awesome Award voting is finished! I've got to thank everybody who voted for me enough in the preliminary round to get me nominated for Best Short Story (For **Scenes From a Sandwich Shop**) and Best New Author. I was beyond flattered, you guys.**

**Now, before we get to the reviews, my slavedriv-I MEAN BETA, **_Frea O'Scanlin_**, would like a word.**

_B/N: Hey, 'Mused's beta here. I hope everybody's enjoying the prequel to __**What Fates Imp**__- Wait just a second, this ISN'T the prequel to Fates? What the hizzle? Hee, either way, I'm just as mad as the rest of you are that Sarah's going away, but I promise you, I've chained 'Mused to a wall and forced him to tell me the ennnnnntire plotline, and I really think you're going to like what's coming. In fact, I liked it so much that I let him have a keyboard, one serving of bread, and a cup of water everyday so that he could write this chapter for you. Yes, Sarah's gone, but (SPOILER ALERT) she's coming back! And it MAY be even sexier than that fight scene because whew, let me tell you, I needed a few minions to fan me with palm leaves after reading that one for the first time._

**Awww. Isn't she the best? And no I'm not contractually obligated to say that because otherwise I'll be taking lashes against the wall. I promise.**

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Oh, one last thing. Just like in chapters one through five, I'm having a contest for chapters six through then. How do you enter the contest? Exactly the same as last time. Chapters six through ten were named after various albums. Hit me up in a PM or a review and tell me what artists/bands recorded those albums and you can win a one-shot from me! Feel free to use Google to look it up this time around, as last time the response made me cry. :(

And, with that, ONTOTHEREVIEWS

tw200: The last part of chapter nine was done in Bryce's POV and Bryce is the one who has heard of Sarah Walker. Sorry if that wasn't clear! I'm glad you liked the chapter and that I'm wooing you over to the Chill Side (which is like the Dark Side but prettier). Thanks for the review!

DamageReport: Oh man, did you make the chocolate quote your Facebook status? Because, seriously, that would make my week. Thanks for reviewing!

zipfe: Glad you liked it and thanks for the review!

TeamBartowski: You're so very right that Sarah was easily rooted out because people wanted to see her. I'm glad you're liking Chuck's rather tumultuous mental state here, and I hope combat training with Sarah lived up to your expectations. Thanks for the review!

aardvark7734: So, I can't say enough how much I enjoyed all of this feedback, particularly how you broke down, scene-by-scene and effectively picked up on everything I was trying to communicate. It felt really good to know that all of these things I'm attempting to say are getting through. Regarding the rewrites, originally the first and third scenes were combined into one, and the sex scene was non-existent. It was convoluted and ineffective. The first scene ended up staying pretty much as-is, I only added a few more concluding paragraphs. Then the third scene was LITERALLY the bare minimum of dialog pulled from the original copy to get the plot point across. Dunno if any of that is of note, but I figured I'd throw it out there. Again, thanks so much for all the feedback!

Lanababe: An Aussie? Sweet! To assuage your fears, I promise no Sarah/Bryce. Promise. Unfortunately, no more Sarah for a little while either. I know, I'm sorry. Hope you enjoyed the chapter and thanks as always for reviewing!

ChaosKid0: You are indeed right, but Chuck and Sarah found a way to work around it like they find a way to work around most things. Except season three. Anyway, thanks for the review!

onesmartgoalie: Your comment about getting to see a similar scene from Chuck's perspective has tickled my imagination. If a Chuck POV sex scene shows up, I put full responsibility on your shoulders. ;) Glad you liked the chapter and hoped you liked this one, too. Thanks for reviewing!

xx-crispy-mnms-lover-xx: Well, Bryce and Sarah have been in the same program for, what, a year now? They at least know of each other, even if it's not personal. Glad that I can convince even a massive Charah fan to give Chuck and Jill a shot! Thanks for reviewing!

Anne: Aww, don't get angry! I'm sorry! I promise that sometime in the future of this story Chuck and Sarah will get busy. Does that help? :) Thanks for saying I'm an excellent writer, and thanks so much the review!

jinxed97: I'm glad you enjoyed my Jill/Chuck moment. I'm as excited as the rest of you for the first real Chuck/Sarah moment (did it happen in this chapter or not? Oooooh, mystery), so I hope you all like the story enough to wait for it. Thanks so much for reviewing!

**enz8: Aw! I'm glad that I inspired you, it's a wonderful feeling to know that something you've done has helped to push someone else's imagination. Regarding the Trainee Program and all that stuff, I mean, I **_**know**_** this isn't the real way the CIA handles business, but it's the **_**Chuck**_**-verse, where a Red Test is a real thing and they have fight scenes with the lindy hop. It's just more **_**fun**_** to do it their way, you know? I appreciate any help that you're willing to give, and if need be I'll be sure to hit you up. Thanks for the review!**

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Joe: I really am evil. I can't apologize for that enough. :) As far as the length of this fic, well, It's going to be four parts, so it'll probably be a good amount of chapters still. I'm glad that you're liking it to the point where you want it to be longer! Thanks so much for your kind words, and for voting for me in the Awesomes. I really apreciate it. And, of course, thank you for reviewing!

Pegasus0012: Too much time on training? :( Awww. Unfortunately, I've got this entire story planned out, and the training is a deathly important part of Chuck's journey. I hope it doesn't bore you too much! Thanks for the review!

**Fire From Above: It does **_**seem**_** that way, doesn't it? Mwahahahaha. Okay, yeah, it does seem that way you're right. :) Glad you liked the chapter so much, and thanks, of course, for the review!**

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bubbly.o9: She did! And then I took her away again because I'm a jerkface. I'm sorry! I hope you still like the story! Thanks for the review!

Foxmac: Oh man I would TOTALLY buy that book. And then I would re-edit the Chuck episodes with subtitles at the bottom for each and every Casey grunt. Any video editors willing to take this on? Freelz, it needs to happen. Anywho, I hope you liked the Story of Chuck and Sarah in Twist, Part One! Thanks as always for the wonderful feedback!

**Alaster Raz: **_Frea_ **is freaking fantastic, and deserves all the credit in the world for how this story has turned out. I take your praise only because I'm a narcissist who can't give it ALL to her. ;) Thanks so much for the review and all the kind words!**

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JohnClark43: Ahhh, I gotcha. I can see how it was a little hard to follow. I hope this chapter, which did a lot of jumping around, was as clear as chapter nine. I'm sorry about there being too much Jill! And I'm sorry for taking Sarah away so suddenly! But I promise, the next time she comes back, she comes back for good. No foolsies. Hope you liked it, and thanks for the review!

Wepdiggy: Devious Jill is fun, I concur. Even if she's only being devious because she's trying to be responsive. I hope you liked Sarah's official introduction (and subsequent flight from) Twist. And I'm glad you like the chapter titles, and I in no way will ever apologize for forcing you to change your next chapter of CY, mostly because being an influence on a story that influences me makes me feel a little proud. :) Thanks for the review, good sir!

DanaPAH: I TOTALLY believe you that you called it. For real. :) All of our feedback is always excellent, and I love hearing how you look at the story and what you (and every one of my readers) think of it. I agree that Chuck needs to take what Jill said to heart, but I also agree that the puzzle box is going to come back and bite her. And, well, what happens then? (Do I know the answer to that question? Maaaaaaybe.) Anywho, I KIND of gave you Chuck and Bryce from a different perspective, so I hope that was enough. As far as how much longer the training goes, it's still a little ways yet, BUT the nature of it is going to be changing from facility-training to field-training. Missions with senior agents and all that fun stuff. Mark your calendar! :) As always, thanks so much for all your feedback.

**supesfan18: The answer to your question regarding Chuck, Bryce and Sarah is: neither. No Sarah and Bryce and no immediate Sarah and Chuck. I know, I'm a bad man for kicking her out of the story so soon after introducing her, but like I said, next time she's back she's back for good. I hope you like the story enough to keep with it! Thanks so much for the review!**


	11. Life is Full of Possibilities

_August 23, 2004_

It was 5:37 a.m.

Chuck knew this because he was awake and his body had become militantly accustomed to waking up at 5:37 every morning, not long after the first rays of sun began to filter through the blinds of his bedroom.

His first move was to evaluate his surroundings. He kept his eyes closed, so as not to notify any potential threats that he was awake. His nose and body felt nothing unusual, but there was an unfamiliar weight on the other side of the bed. It wasn't moving. He was about to innocuously stretch his body back towards it to determine what it was before the obvious explanation hit him.

It was Jill.

He smiled and opened his eyes, rolling over to see his girlfriend sprawled naked on the other side of his bed. The immediate haze of waking lifted and the memories of Jill climbing into bed with him last night returned. She had been given a surprise long weekend from the Stanford labs, so she had caught a late flight out of LAX to visit him.

Surprises, in Agent McKenzie's vernacular, meant not disclosing a guard or two in the parameters of a training mission, or filling an area with debris from an "explosion" to force Chuck and Bryce to take a circuitous, dangerous route to their destination. If you don't learn how to deal with surprises, he would tell them, you will die.

By Chuck's count, that left making steak bordelaise and watching _The View_ as the lone activities that didn't threaten his life. And the jury was still out on _The View_.

His first instinct when Jill had opened his door had been to rush her, to take the trespasser by surprise and subdue her quickly. His body had twitched with muscle memory of the footwork Sarah had taught him that would bring him from his bed to the doorway in the shortest amount of time while maintaining cover. It had only been by recognizing her hair, seeing the familiar arms of her glasses, noticing the memorized curve of her profile, that he had tamped down on what were now his instincts.

She had smiled when she saw him, a smile that was half giddy, childish happiness at seeing him after so long and half unrestrained hormones. Wordlessly, she had begun taking off her clothes and walking slowly towards him in bed.

In his room now, he alternated his gaze between the dawn light shooting through the shades and glancing at Jill's still sleeping form. Sleeping on her stomach, her back rose and fell the slightest bit with each breath and her hair fanned out across it, various tendrils floating across the surface of her skin.

Chuck slowly stood up, walking over to the window and peeking out the blinds at the beginning of the summer day. He could feel the day's heat beginning to form on the panes of glass; it would be scorching by afternoon. After a last glance at the city's skyline, he sat down again on the bed, taking a drink from the cup of water that he always placed on his bedside table before retiring for the evening. His parched throat thanked him.

When Jill had entered last night, her footsteps had been slow and deliberate, crossing delicately one in front of the other. In his mind he had gone through the necessary counter footwork, even as he noticed how each stride must have been calculated to highlight and draw attention to her long, lithe legs. Part of him kept thinking about how obviously she was communicating her next moves. The other part of him had been waiting excitedly for her next moves.

Wait for your opponent to make the first move, Chuck. It had been one of Sarah's lessons. Watch their body language for any signs of shifting from a passive mode into an active attack. Watch for the flexing of muscles, that will tell you which limb they're going to use.

Jill's shoulder's had tensed, which had drawn Chuck's attention to her arms. He had watched as she carefully and slowly slid the straps of her bra over her shoulders, letting the garment fall to her hips. Naturally, his focus had shifted from her arms to her exposed torso.

A distraction, Sarah had taught him, is any action that is designed to take attention away from the limbs.

He had looked back at her arms, then.

Chuck watched as Jill's right arm reached for something that wasn't there, probably his body. He allowed himself the faintest sliver of a grin at the frustrated, sleepy groan that she emitted. He took another sip of water and picked some non-existent lint from his boxers. On the mirror that sat opposite the bed, atop of his dresser, he saw both Jill and himself reflected.

He looked a lot bigger, compared to her, than he could ever remember being.

Last night, when Jill had come in, it had seemed to take her an hour to reach the side of the bed. He had watched as she reached down to the covers, her slender fingers wrapping themselves around the fabric, bunching the material like holiday tissue paper. Chuck had slowly moved into a more upright position, so he no longer required his arms and hands for balance, but could instead use them if needed.

Jill had pulled back the covers, not lifting her gaze from his. He remembered noting that she hadn't once looked away from his face. According to Sarah, maintaining unbroken eye contact was the easiest way to disarm your opponent.

Chuck hadn't moved as she shifted her body into the place where it was currently laying. With Jill still not looking away, her hand had reached out and moved towards him, towards his face.

Your face is your weakest point, Sarah had told him. He had made jokes about that, but the point remained that four of the five senses were located there, and could easily be assaulted if you allowed an opponent access. Seven of Sarah's first ten lessons with him were teaching him how to protect his face from attack.

He had watched Jill's hand approach, instincts and training telling him not just to avoid her fingers and their sparkling, burgundy red nails, but to grab them with his own hand, twist them in one of a variety of different directions intended to break, sprain, fracture, or merely threaten.

But he hadn't moved. Jill's hand had continued its slow journey until her fingers cupped the curve of his cheek. It was a small gesture and to Jill it had probably been nothing worth noting compared to what came after. To Chuck, though, it had been a reminder of a thousand things he was on the verge of forgetting. Like Ellie and Devon, who were starting their medical careers in Burbank. Like Morgan, who still bombarded him with messages over XBox Live the few moments he was on. All at once, from that simple touch, he had felt lessons about enemy combatants recede. He had placed his own hand over hers, taking her soft skin inside his own now-callused palm.

Sitting on the bed, noting the position of the sun behind his blinds, Chuck saw Jill's hand grasp for his body again. At her second petulant noise, he repeated his gesture from the other night, taking her hand in his own.

In two days she would be leaving, forced back to California by work. In five days he and Bryce would be shipped off to Spain for their first training assignment in the field. _Él ahora habló español_. It was, for whatever reason, what made the entire thing seem the most real. Realizing he could fluently speak other languages had finally caused the idea to click in his head. The weapons that had previously been paint ball guns and dart guns were now going to be _gun_ guns.

Jill squeezed his hand back and sighed happily. He smiled to himself. She was both his anchor and his propeller. It was for her, for the people he loved, that he was doing this. And it was her, being there for him, that kept him grounded. It was her words, about the human brain being too complex to reduce to computations, that kept him sane. And it was having her to trust with his heart, that kept him from becoming one of the disillusioned, distrusting agents he was trained by every day.

She snuggled up to his arm, wrapping her own around it.

He couldn't think of any of his combat lessons about that.

He took another sip.

* * *

_August 23, 2004_

It was 2:11 p.m.

According to Bryce's government-issue watch, at least.

He flipped nonchalantly through his notebook, his messy scrawl intentionally obscuring most words from outside reading. He also had placed random letters in the middle of words, random words in the middle of phrases, random phrases in the middle of paragraphs. Simple subtraction codes that wouldn't catch an outsider's eye but would prevent any outsider from gleaning the information he had put down.

Colin Williamson.

Bryce didn't know where Orion had found his information and he didn't _want_ to know. It was independent research on Bryce's part that confirmed that Orion's report that Williamson was an U.S. liaison to the Ukraine. And a few favors that Bryce was owed had told him, just as Orion said, the man was being investigated for possibly disclosing names of covert agents to the Russian mob.

He had left the apartment this morning to look at the information Orion had provided, unwilling or unable to open up the notebook in the apartment, in a place that felt so much like Chuck. For whatever reason, he had almost tripped descending the narrow staircase that led up to their place.

These things take time, Orion had told him. If an investigation was only in its initial stages, it would likely be four to six months before the information could be confirmed, and another two or three months before the hit could be constructed and assigned. The agency liked to design their Red Tests to be almost idiot-proof. They liked to set up everything in as controlled an environment as possible.

Orion had told him what Bryce's instructors had told him: an agent's job in their Red Test was only to show up and kill, to be punctual and be dispassionate, to check their watch and check their weapon.

Bryce took a slow, steady sip of his coffee. It wasn't bitter, despite how appropriate Bryce felt that detail may have been. He flipped randomly back and forth between two pages. He told himself it was to throw off the scent of anyone inside the coffee shop who might be watching him, not because he was so nervous that he needed _something _to do with his hands.

Colin Williamson was going to die, Orion had told him, and it would be one of the CIA's recruits that would be expected to kill him. It might be you, he remembered the disembodied voice saying, or it might be Chuck.

If Chuck passed his Red Test, Chuck would be the only possible candidate to be the human Intersect. If they attempted to make Chuck into the human Intersect, Chuck would die. If Chuck didn't pass his Red Test, they would discharge him. If they discharged him, he'd be safe. He'd be _alive_.

He and Orion were trying to influence the assignment for Chuck's Red Test. They were trying to make it impossible to complete, without getting Chuck killed. They were trying to save his life.

To Bryce, it still somehow felt like betrayal. He took another sip of his coffee and flipped the page.

Kevin Daniels. According to Orion's intel, the CIA was close to identifying him as the primary contact for a group of violent Guatemalan rebels who had been periodically and mysteriously supplied with modern American weaponry.

You may have to kill him, or Chuck might.

Chuck might. Bryce was no longer sure he knew what Chuck would or wouldn't do. His friend's eyes now swept every room upon entrance in an unfamiliar, analytical way. They analyzed every space for any possible hostiles, for the best possible ambush spot, for hiding places, for cover, for makeshift weapons.

Even the walk here had been strangely nerve-wracking. Bryce had kept patting his pants pocket where the small notebook resided every few moments, as if he were expecting it to be stolen, or for it to be a figment of his imagination.

The bell on the door of the coffee shop rang gently as an older woman entered with her kid. The sound knocked Bryce out of his musings and he checked his watch again. 2:19. He didn't even know why he kept looking at it.

There's a system in place, Orion had told him. Certain targets are poisoned. Certain targets are assassinated. Others have their deaths arranged to look like accidents or suicides. Recruits, Orion said, their actual job is simple, but they're placed in the situation that will make them the most uncomfortable.

It was a test within a test. It forced you to break your last rule.

Bryce casually grabbed his phone from his pocket, turning it over in his hands in a manner that would appear haphazard. Orion's latest burner had been designed to look like a standard Nokia 5100. If it had been something he could have talked to Chuck about, they would have made jokes about decorating it with rhinestones and floral covers.

Bryce flipped to Jennifer Samson's page. The NSA was compiling evidence that she was the DEA leak responsible for two different drug cartels in Colombia avoiding recent sting attempts.

Dignitaries, Orion had told him, were poisoned. Double agents, assassinated. Foreign leaders were snuffed in designed military coups. Enemy combatants were killed in staged accidents or killed face to face. If you preferred a fair fight, you were given the assignment of poisoning someone. If you were unsure you could pull the trigger at the right time, for your Red Test you'd become an assassin. If you hated manipulation, that was what you'd be doing.

Orion had told Bryce that for his Red Test, he should expect a mugging. He should expect to have to be cruel and brutal. He should expect to be the guy who killed Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Chuck, Orion had said, would be asked to be an assassin.

Bryce kept expecting Chuck and Jill to enter the coffee shop at any moment. Every time the bell rang he kept glancing through his peripheral vision to see if he recognized a tall mop of curly brown hair or Jill's petite form.

Orion had arranged Jill's time off from work. Orion had somehow found room on an overbooked flight from LAX to Dulles. Just to get Chuck out of the apartment. Just to give himself and Bryce time to decide on who Chuck wouldn't be able to kill. Bryce flipped another page.

Allejandro Goya. The ruthless premier of Costa Gravas.

Bryce stopped twirling the phone in his off hand. He looked at the thing, knowing that just pressing one button would connect him with Orion. Or he could close the notebook, put the phone back in his pocket and walk away. He could be Chuck's friend, or he could be Chuck's savior. He could have his best friend by his side for the next year or two, or he could just have the knowledge that his friend was alive for the next twenty.

Bryce's finger hovered over the "Send" button.

The last thing Orion had said to him the last time they spoke was: what's important here is not you or me. It's Chuck.

The bell of the coffee shop rang. Bryce didn't even look.

He pressed the button.

* * *

_August 23, 2004_

It was 11:42 P.M.

Jill sat at the edge of Chuck's bed, watching but not really watching late night television. Chuck himself was asleep. Jill noticed that Chuck now slept, for whatever reason, with his body taking up as little space on the bed as possible, as if he were used to sleeping in small spaces and had no idea what to do with all the room available on his queen-size bed.

It was one of many things that she didn't recognize about him. She didn't recognize the way his eyes darted around the room every time he came to a doorway or how his gait had turned from awkward and fumbling to long and purposeful. His smile still spread wide and unrestrained across his face, but now something pulled down at the corners. His eyes were always drooping, despite his almost permanent alertness.

On TV, David Letterman made some joke about the U.S.A. Olympic men's basketball team losing to Lithuania two nights before. Though the joke wasn't particularly funny, Jill laughed, for no other reason than to do something with her anxiety.

That Wilco song that Chuck liked said that all distance had no way of making love understandable. But the Chuck that had moved all distances away had stopped giddily recommending her bands to check out, had stopped playing video games online, had stopped watching _Tron_ bi-weekly. This Chuck hadn't sent out mass e-mails about the latest XBox 360 updates.

He seemed more grown up than she had ever seen him.

When she went back to California, she would be meeting her Fulcrum handler for the first time. For the past few months all of her work had been done through her Uncle Bernie, but with the progress she was making on in-field therapy methods for biochemical weapons attacks and her knack for inventing creative puzzles for agents out in the field, she was being promoted. Or being watched.

A few weeks before, a Fulcrum agent had come into the lab, poisoned during a covert activity by the CIA. He had been laying there, on the table, his breath coming out in short gasps as his esophagus swelled. His chest had heaved every few seconds with deep, aching breathes that caused his back to arch high into the air. His head would thrash around, searching for a better angle for air.

The agents that had brought him in had handed her a vial and told her to make an antidote.

She and Chuck that day, they'd gone to the Smithsonian, they'd gone to visit the White House, they'd gone to the Lincoln and Washington Monuments. Chuck had told her, smiling, about how and why they had built the Washington Monument in that style. He'd talked her ear off about the Wright Brothers' flying machines.

For a few hours, he'd been the Chuck she remembered. He'd looked like a twenty three-year-old whose age would only increase for the few short seconds when he'd hesitate at an archway or take too many consecutive steps slowly.

The Fulcrum men had told her to make an antidote and had stood there, impassive, while this man in his elegant suit coughed and hacked, pining for air that wasn't coming. She had grabbed the vial, putting together everything she needed as quickly as she could without breaking any of the delicate equipment in the lab.

The man on the table, his build had been lean and tall and his hair was windswept and his features classically handsome. When she didn't look closely, he kind of looked like Bryce. And the two other agents had just _stood_ there while she fiddled with the dials on her microscopes, hoping she recognized the chemical makeup of the poison so she could engineer something.

She hadn't.

She laid back down on the bed, smiling to herself when Chuck scooted unconsciously closer to her. For all of his differences in appearance and demeanor, for all of the little things that she didn't recognize, he still made every attempt to make her smile.

She and Chuck had passed by the CIA building earlier in the day. Jill had taken an unnaturally long look at it. She didn't know why. She didn't know what she was expecting to see. An agent outside, kicking puppies and denying citizens their basic rights? Or maybe one agent standing around, not doing anything while one of his partners choked to death.

She didn't know anymore if there was really any difference between Fulcrum and the government. The longer she worked for them the more they seemed like two sides of the same coin, and which one you ended up with was less a matter of ideology and more a matter of chance.

Jill turned off the television, feeling far more real next to Chuck than she did watching Letterman. She turned over onto him, reaching an arm across his torso and wrapping one of her legs around his. Chuck's left arm, which was tucked against her body, fought its way free and found a more comfortable position wrapped around her shoulders.

She stiffened when he squeezed her shoulder.

The Fulcrum men, they had told her she needed to give the dying agent a tracheotomy. His breath had stopped coming out even in gasps at that point, and instead his mouth moved wordlessly, like a fish pulled onto dry land. That close, he looked less like Bryce and more like someone who could be Bryce's brother. He looked like someone who deserved concern over his death.

He looked like a kid.

She had taken the scalpel and her hands had shook. Right before she had made the incision, the kid had reached up and grabbed her shoulder.

Around noon, she and Chuck had decided to get lunch at some random Thai restaurant that they just happened to be walking by. It had been one of those spontaneous, hey-let's-do-this decisions that Chuck tended to make. She could always tell they were coming by the way he'd slow his gait, how he'd look back at whatever he saw. Then he would stop and grab both of her hands, making sure to make full eye contact.

Then he'd put his hands on her shoulders.

It was 11:58 pm.

When her incision in the kid's throat had gone too deep, his hands had fallen from her shoulders and laid limply on the side of the table. She stood there, shocked, looking between the other two men. She wanted someone to remind her that she was a scientist, not a medical professional. She wanted someone to tell her that to create an antidote to an unrecognized poison in less than ten minutes was impossible. She wanted some sort of forgiveness, some sort of absolution.

When she had arrived at Chuck's apartment days later and opened the door, Chuck had looked young under the moonlight and she had thought of the person she had just killed. She had thought of the people who stood there and left without a glance or a show of remorse. She had approached Chuck and kept her eyes locked with his, looking for that forgiveness or absolution.

There were things about him she didn't recognize anymore. The curve from his neck into his shoulder was tougher and leaner than it had been even the last time they were together. He had new patterns and habits, and his old ones seemed like the work of a different person. But when, in half-sleep, he pulled her close and rested his chin on her head like he would every time he slept over in her bed, those incongruities didn't seem to matter.

His hand stayed on her shoulder.

* * *

**A/N: Sooooo, excuses time! I had a lot happening in my life over the last month, some of them very good and some of them not so good. I was also writing a lot of other stuff- stuff I was being paid to write- and as consequence this was pushed to the back burner. But I'm back now! And I have inspiration! And stuff! Woo! For those interested, Digi Bonds won the last chapter title contest. In, like, five minutes. Go Digi! BUT he never got back to me with a one-shot request. So, Digi! Please request one! Or not. Whichever.**

**As always, I have to give much love to my beta **_Frea O'Scanlin_**, who not only is a great beta but made me feel really bad for my readers by updating like 8 times since I posted ten. Nothing promotes writing like jealousy, I always say. **

**Speaking of **_Frea_**, she has recently invited me and several others to join up for a blog. It's called Castle Inanity and you can find it at castleinanity(dot)blogspot(dot)com. I'll be writing a column there periodically entitled "Why We Write" which is about, um, why we write. Some of the best authors in the fandom- **_mxpw_**, **_Wepdiggy_**, ****, **_liam2_**, **_Frea_**herself**_**-**_** will also be contributing. And, what might most interest you all, is that there will be progress bars on our fics! You'll know exactly when I'm being lazy and can bug me about it! How cool is that?**

**Answer: It is very cool. ONTOTHEREVIEWS**

**Nautica7mk: So every time I read your review I blush. Seriously. I... I don't even know if I can come up with an adequate reply because every time I try I just start turning to warm, flattered goo. Thank you so much for your kind words!**

**JohnClark43: Hahaha, your opinion of the Sarah/Jill balance is to have it all Sarah and no Jill? I like it, sir. I like it. I apologize, however, for going completely opposite this time around. I'm a jerk. It happens. As far as what happened in the bar scene, I may revisit it later when Sarah returns to the story, but that won't be for awhile. Though I don't know how meaty the bar scene would have been, honestly. Thanks so much for the review!**

**Fire From Above: I'm glad you liked my Sarah characterization! I know that you're not really a Charah person, but I think this early characterization of her, and the way she responds to the uncertainty of how those words don't mean anything about her, shows exactly why so many people are. At least I hope it does! Thanks for reading and reveiwing, as always!**

**zipfe: So I didn't write more or faster this time around and I'm sorry! But things will be picking up a lot in the upcoming chapters, making Sarah's absence the least thing on your mind. Hopefully. If I do my job. Thanks for the review!**

**Team Bartowski: Writing Sarah was probably the most frustrated I've ever been with a character, but I also think it was the most rewarding. And, because I've now kind of figured her out, it'll hopefully be only the good stuff every time you see her. But I hope you liked this chapter as much, even without Sarah! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Foxmac: So, you got some more answers on Orion and Bryce and some more of Chuck slowly distancing himself from the people in California. I know, I am an evil guy. I'm glad you liked the last chapter and I hope you liked this one, too. Thanks as always for the feedback!**

**TeddyLupin67890: So, next chapter you're definitely going to get to see Chuck in a mission. Albeit a training mission, but hey. A win is a win, right? As far as Jill goes... well I won't be killing her off just yet. I apologize in advance! Thanks for the review!**

**Ayefah: I'm glad you liked the training! This chapter was devoid of such activities, but the next run of chapters is going to be all training, right there in the thick of it. So I hope you enjoy those, and I hope you liked this one, too! Thanks for the reviews!**

**Pegasus0012: So, I'm not going to lie, I think it was your comment in reviewing **What Fates Impose **that really kicked my ass into high gear in finishing this chapter. So, for that, I thank you. I also thank you for your kind words, especially regarding incorporating canon, which is something I've tried hard to do every step of the way. As far as the 1.0 or the 2.0, the answer is the 1.0. Since, regarding canon, the 2.0 won't be around for quite a while yet. Thanks for reviewing!**

**onesmartgoalie: I'm glad you liked the last chapter! Thanks so much for reviewing! Sorry I didn't update soon!**

**Tynianrex: Well, you had a co-conspirator in your plan to make Sarah a bodyguard/partner and I can't say the thought didn't cross my mind. However, that's pretty much the point of Bryce- at least to the CIA. I liked the theory and, if I didn't already have someone in that roll, I might have gone with it, though! Thanks for the review!**

**jinxed97: I'm glad you liked my version of Charah! Thanks for reviewing!**

**xx-crispy-mnms-lover-xx: I'm sorry for no Charah for awhile! Hopefully you still love my story anyway! Thanks for the review!**

**Joe: I definitely hope the changes we see in them and the changes they see in each other next time they meet will be interesting! Thanks, as always, for reviewing!**

**aardvark7734: Aardie, I'd like to point out that your reviews are longer than some of my one shots. THIS IS IN NO WAY A BAD THING I LOVE IT IT MAKES MY EGO GROW. With that out of the way, I have to say to you the same thing I said to Nautica7mk earlier, every time I read your review I melt into a puddle of self-satisfaction. I really appreciate every word. So thanks for that. Getting to your content, I guess the connection between the two POVs in chapter 10 were thematic. They were about how Chuck and Sarah had changed each other, even after such a short time. I'm glad you liked my Sarah and I thank you so much for always giving so much feedback!**

**TSYldChild: The thing about a lot of these basic training aspects is not that I'm trying to gloss them over, but that I'm trying to make them implied rather than stated outright. Because we have seen Chuck getting exponentially better at combat, we can assume in the future he'll be even that much better, and so on. Both you and Tynianrex had a great idea, regarding Sarah as bodyguard, but like I said I already have Bryce to fill that roll and how silly would that be to have them both doing the same job, right? :)**

**DanaPAH: DON'T FREAK OUT! It's okay! There's a new chapter! I'm really glad you liked so much of chapter ten, and I agree with you, this story is about Chuck's journey more so than Charah. And the CIA revealing the Omaha project... Well that's going to be fun, isn't it? :) Anyway, in my world, the Red Test is kind of like that not-so-secret secret. The kind of secret that everyone knows about, like how to pass your exams as a lawyer, you know? Anyway, if you ever want to know in the future how a chapter is coming along, you can check out Castle Inanity (castleinanity(dot)blogspot(dot)com) which will have a neat little progress bar that will tell you exactly how complete or not the latest chapter of Twist is! Thanks so much for being so passionate about my story and, I promise you, I won't abandon it! I am pretty sure **_Frea_ **would start tearing out my fingernails if I started taking too long between chaters.**


	12. All My Friends Are Funeral Singers

_September 1, 2004_

It was the difference between a written test and a practical, the difference between writing the instructions for an experiment down and following those instructions to a meticulous tee. It was the difference between telling Ellie he was leaving and actually getting on the plane. It was the difference between hand-to-hand combat with Bryce and hand-to-hand combat with Sarah.

It was the intellectual knowledge versus the application.

Chuck ducked down a stray alley, grateful that, despite Bryce's protestations that they wear boat shoes or flip-flops to fit in as the tourists they were claiming to be, he'd decided to wear his Chuck Taylor's anyway. It had enabled him to put some distance between him and his pursuers. And the fact that he had led them through a chase that was at least semi-public, it prevented them from pulling out their firearms.

Their real, honest-to-God, gunpowder and hot lead firearms.

What had Bryce said last night? "Should be a piece of cake, right?"

He had said that about the training mission where Sarah had tranq'd the both of them. And the mission where a door had exploded and almost knocked them both out. And the mission where the ceiling had fallen on them. It was their version of "I have a bad feeling about this."

Bryce had even grinned after saying it.

Now Chuck was ducking down alleys while Bryce took to the rooftops, both attempting to get to their "In-The-Very-Slight-Circumstance-Things-Might-Go-A-Little-FUBAR" meet-up location.

Bryce had protested the ITVSCTMGALF meeting point. "Chuck, you said so yourself that it's a milk run."

"Until you can make sure a room is clear without me getting shot by tranq darts, I'm setting up back up plans."

Somewhere between June and November, he had lost something. A sense of levity, perhaps.

He saw Bryce, a few hundred yards off in the distance, leap over a small gap between two buildings and kind of wished he still had enough of a playful side to him to want to stick his tongue out at Bryce and say "I told you so."

He only barely picked up on the video game gun shot noise of his pursuer's silenced Glock. Obviously, the abandoned state of the alley had emboldened the man to try to take a shot. Even despite his training, Chuck flinched at the noise. When he didn't start gushing blood like a Mortal Kombat character, he redoubled his efforts, using his long legs to put a safer distance between himself and the shooter.

He'd played poker last night.

A few hours after Bryce had turned the lights out in their room at Naval Station Rota, a few of the guys had snuck in and tried to abduct Chuck. He had heard them. He didn't sleep through much of anything anymore, least of all seven members of the United States Navy attempting to sneak into a room. Instead of finding someone to black bag and drag out of the room in abject terror, one of the guys, Connor, had practically screamed when a Nerf dart had connected with his forehead.

Chuck had bought the Nerf gun at the NEX.

It had reminded him of his old life, in a way the people from his old life no longer could.

Further in the distance he detected a follow-up retort from the shooter's pistol. The man must have stopped in an attempt to line up the shot, but the distance Chuck gained from increasing his speed paid had off. He ducked down another alley, one that meant he was now taking his third-choice route to the meeting spot.

If Chuck had been forced to narrow it down to any one thing that had tipped off the realization that he was in a foreign country, it hadn't been the flight into Rota Naval Station. Nor had it been being surrounded by military personnel carrying weapons, heavy and light. It hadn't been the meetings or briefings, the occasional forays into Spanish or the mission parameters.

It had been the smell.

The smell was richer and earthier than any he could remember. He had never been out to visit Morgan's family in the Midwest, so he couldn't say with any certainty that the farmlands and plains didn't compare, but the air of the coastal U.S. was almost non-existent compared to the grainy, almost tactile experience of the smells of southwest Spain.

Now, the smells made things real in a different way. Even the acrid stench of the combustible gases from the firearms that were shooting at him seemed to linger. His whole nasal cavity felt warm, taking in the heat from the friction of his sneakers against the pavement. And the salt of both the nearby shore and his own sweat hung heavy and bitter. All of them mixed together into something that clearly told Chuck that he could die here. Today.

He didn't have a fourth-choice route.

Almost a year ago had been paintball. Now cobblestone boulevards and sandstone brick replaced autumn leaves and evergreen trees, but he was still running from an enemy he couldn't see. A comfortable running form had replaced his awkward and stilted gait, but he was still mostly just _hoping_ he wouldn't be shot.

And lead had replaced paint.

This mission was supposed to be easy. Go to Chipiona, grab information from a few informants, get back to the base. It was just supposed to be, in official terms, a retrieval op. It was just supposed to be, in nerd terms, "Find the green key."

Another gunshot, this one even further off. Were they shooting at Bryce now?

"Nice day, isn't it? Not too many clouds out." The two informants, Spanish nationals who were assisting the U.S. with documentation exposing corrupted officials in the U.S. embassy in Spain, had chosen clouds as the code word.

Bryce had leaned back, his classic rakish grin crossing his face. "I like cloudy days." Bryce kicked back a chair. "Take a seat, guys."

Chuck had narrowed his eyes without looking over at Bryce. If you don't treat a situation with the proper respect, the situation will treat you the same. It had been one the few maxims from Agent McKenzie that Chuck had bought into.

The shorter of the two informants, Ruiz, had seemed nervous and twitchy from the moment he had approached. Chuck had noticed the way he had wiped his palms against his pants and the way his eyes shot around, looking back and forth not frantically, but often enough where the description was almost apt. At first, Chuck had chalked it up to the same sense of foreboding and imminent danger that he himself had been experiencing. It had been a bit like looking in a mirror.

As he heard one of the men following him begin to ascend the same fire escape he had just toppled, Chuck shook his head ruefully. Another one of Bryce's "piece of cake" missions. Don't treat a situation with the proper respect, and the situation will treat you the same.

If Bryce said something was going to be a piece of cake one more time, Chuck was probably going to just eat his own gun.

He jumped across a few rooftops, noting somewhere in the back of his head how he did so now without hesitation. The first time he'd been asked to jump across rooftops, it had been a training exercise. He had only been able to think two things. That it had been an enormous drop, and that the only other person who would have been crazy enough to try to convince him of this situation would have been Captain Awesome.

"Look, can't we start with something a little less fatal?" he had pleaded.

McKenzie had laughed caustically at that, and Chuck had only barely resisted the urge to point out that he hadn't been joking.

Now, his legs were thick and toned from a year of intense physical training and he used them to push off from the ledge of a building, in the hopes of landing on another ledge at least ten feet away. He used them to launch himself over a fatal drop, without doubt, as natural as if he were walking.

Adrenaline, it seemed, overrode higher brain functions.

"Raise." He'd said that a lot last night.

The truth was, that poker game last night was saving their lives now.

It had been like a crash course in body language. He'd stared across the table at the naval officers, noting the way their eyes flickered, the nervous tics of their bodies. He had watched how they folded their hands and how they adjusted their cards. The biggest tell isn't an uncharacteristic moment, he had remembered McKenzie telling him, it's a repeated characteristic that you've figured out the meaning of.

Connor had smirked a lot, good hands or bad, rags or pocket aces, but his smirk had turned different ways depending on the flop. Lindhurst's dark sarcasm had retreated just the slightest bit when his hand had looked good, and then had returned if he hadn't made his straight or flush draws. The jokes Sanchez had constantly told continued, but they had become dirtier the worse his hand had been.

A gunshot, suddenly very close, caused Chuck to duck behind an air conditioning unit for just a moment. He put his hand to his pistol, his emotions flying into debate once his flesh touched the gun's surface. As soon as his fingers clenched around the grip of his firearm, time seemed to jolt to a stop, and a cavalcade of moral quandaries shot through Chuck's head.

Was he actually considering shooting someone?

Was he actually considering _not_?

Maybe just a warning shot? His stomach lurched.

Time sped back up with the next gunshot. Split-second, he thought of Chipiona's map, laid out before him just as it had been when he and Bryce were planning their ITVSCTMGALF escape routes. Using a nearby hotel as a landmark to determine his location, Chuck quickly made up a fourth route, one that would hopefully lose his tail.

Immediately before he took action, he wondered what the hell an engineering student from Stanford was doing here in southwest Spain, facing double agents and dodging stray bullets.

Th third gunshot pinged off the air conditioning unit, probably from a few rooftops away. At the sound of metal against metal, Chuck pushed out of his hiding place, his feet pumping, adrenaline pumping, his muscles burning with lactic acid, and jumped off the edge of the building over the yawning street chasm.

It might have looked like suicide.

He wasn't entirely convinced it wasn't.

His legs were spread, one far out in front of his body and the other a mirror reflection behind, in a wide long jumper's arch that mimicked the trajectory of his jump out into the open air. The smell, the thick smell of Spain that had initially warned him that this was different, mixed with the nearby saltwater breeze, lingering in his nostrils longer than the chemical stench of the shooting range. Cars, both parked and moving, littered the ground, technicolor against otherwise static earth tones of the city's architecture.

The fire escape on the building grew larger in his vision as it came closer, a sort of dramatic, fish-eye camera trick but in real life. It had only been one, maybe two, infinite seconds that he'd been in the air when his leap reached its terminal arch and he began his descent. He didn't have the bravery to look down, but he knew it without looking.

He wasn't going to make it.

"Do you ever wonder, like, why you're doing this?" He'd asked Sarah that question during one of their last training missions.

She had finished taking a drink from her water bottle before looking at him. "What do you mean?"

Her hair had been, as always, tied back in a tight ponytail. Only the few golden wisps that had escaped due to movement had given any indication that she'd done something more strenuous than running up a flight of stairs. She had taught him to focus on something on his opponent that wouldn't change, so he could better notice the things that would. For her, it had been her hair.

"I mean, I know what brought me here. So I guess, in that sense, I know _why_ I'm doing this." He had shrugged. "But, like, what's my motivation moving forward?"

Sarah hadn't said anything to that. He hadn't noticed.

"I mean, I guess they're related. I wanted to do this because I thought that..." He had trailed off. "I don't know, that I could help? That... _this... _would help? I'm not sure I know what 'this' is anymore."

Chuck had looked at Sarah then. His gaze stayed mostly on her eyes but still by force of habit, he focused a bit on her hair that somehow looked more disheveled than it had just a moment ago. She had looked thoughtful or worried or confused or all three.

"I gave up a lot," he had said. "No, I gave up almost everything for this. I sacrificed so much. And I don't know if it was worth it." His smile had been self-deprecating. "I mean, I guess we all go through that, right? Bryce has sacrificed his family, for the most part. And you, right? I'm sure you had to sacrifice something for this. Why'd you do it?"

She had hesitated, for whatever reason, her breath drawing up uncertain and exhaled loudly, almost drowning her words. "I didn't have to sacrifice much, actually."

"Really? What do you mean?"

She hadn't been looking at him as she had dryly smirked, her gaze had been at the far wall or maybe beyond that. "It's complicated."

Chuck had seen something in her then, something true, despite the ambiguity of her response. The biggest tell isn't an uncharacteristic moment, McKenzie had taught him, it's a repeated characteristic that you've figured out the meaning of. That moment was the first time he realized that Sarah Walker was kind of sad.

The ascending arc of Chuck's jump had lasted forever in a few seconds, but the descending arc seemed to happen all at one point in space-time. The moving cars that had seemed stationary and motionless, winding through Chipiona's thin streets seemed to hurtle both along the road to their destination and up towards him, while the various platforms of the fire escape seemed to be flying past him in an almost comical manner, like watching a cartoon elevator shoot downwards with the bad guy trapped inside.

Ruiz had sat with his legs crossed. It was something to focus on that didn't change. It was a repeated characteristic. It was the same sort of tell he'd seen on Connor and Sanchez, the same sort of tell he'd seen on Sarah. For the most part, the man had sat with his left leg crossed lazily over his right. Every once in awhile, though, Chuck had noticed that Ruiz would switch legs, and his eyes would scan the shore for something, a reflection of how Chuck had earlier been watching for Ruiz and his partner.

Armando, the other contact, had made small talk with Bryce as he had slid the thumb drive over, and the pair had looked connected in some way to Chuck. The two confident men, Bryce and Armando, looked natural in this environment, in a way Chuck had figured he never would.

Bryce had pocketed the thumb drive while taking a sip of water, and at that exact moment Ruiz had switched which legs he had crossed. The man's eyes had focused in on one point on the shore and Chuck hadn't even needed to look to know that he and Bryce were going to have to go all _Bourne Identity_ chase scene.

Before Ruiz and his partner had been able to make a suspicious move, Chuck had grabbed Bryce.

"Doubles," he had said at Bryce's shocked, incredulous gaze.

"What? No, you're craz-" Bryce had let the sentence stop suddenly as the both of them had turned back just to see Ruiz quickly bury a knife in his partner.

It had seemed to Chuck that Bryce's moment of realization was just then, as his friend's easy expressions had darkened and hardened. They had looked at each other and spoke silently: _See you at the rendezvous_. Chuck had only just managed to stop from rolling his eyes to add, _hopefully_.

Chuck reached up in his descent, his arm waving madly and his hands grabbing feverishly for something that would stop his momentum, for anything that would keep him from breaking about three quarters of his body on the ground.

Suddenly, his hand closed around something metal, and out of instinct he flexed his fingers tightly around that grip. For the briefest of moments, a flood of relief shot through his body. Then, the physics of momentum followed through and he couldn't stop himself from crying out in agony as he literally felt the ball joint of his humerus slipping out of its socket, the muscles around his shoulder going violently into spasm. His fingers lost their grip in the pain, and he fell again toward the ground, his body an awkward crash dummy as it fell the remaining seven or so feet.

He landed, only just avoiding his now-dislocated shoulder. His body kicked up dirt and dust that glinted in the late afternoon sun like seemed for an impossible moment suspended, though it was likely a delusion from the violent, twanging pain shooting through his arm.

Determined or scared or out of instinct, he forced himself to his feet, quickly accelerating through the door of a nearby hotel. He didn't bother trying to look inconspicuous as he pushed people out of the way with his right arm, trying to ignore the agony in his left, which hung loosely and uselessly at his side.

He scrambled through the lobby, ignoring the yells of the hotel staff as he flew into the stairwell. With his arm dragging him down, Chuck wasn't able to ascend the stairs with anything approaching normal speed, and he worried that one of his pursuers might catch up to him. His fall might have helped him in that way; he doubted anyone seeing his crash landing would expect for him to start jumping roofs again.

The hotel's roof was one of the higher points in Chipiona's cityscape, and when Chuck reached it, it allowed him an excellent 360 degree view of the city's skyline.

It was devoid of other human life.

He let out a stressed, mangled breath he didn't know he had been holding in.

It took him more than ten minutes over the time he had budgeted himself to reach the rendezvous point, but his arm slowed him and made his roof jumping more careful. After the adrenaline wore off and the pain set in, he just didn't have the energy for _Aladdin_-style street-rat chases.

The rendezvous was an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district of town. It had been where they had stashed their car coming into town, far away from their meeting point. They had made that decision so they could identify and lose any tails on their way from the meeting point to the car.

That seemed a little ironic now.

The third lap around the warehouse finally convinced Chuck that he wasn't being followed, and he allowed himself the luxury of acknowledging his pain. Instead of attempting to hold his shoulders a bit more square, he let his left arm hang properly, wiggling like a pool fun noodle. He frowned and grit his teeth as he hoisted his right arm up to open the door, trying to mentally manage the pain.

Bryce, of course, was already there. It seemed he had even had time to set up some of the empty crates into a makeshift recliner, his feet spread out lazily. Chuck kind of laughed as whatever clever welcome Bryce had prepared died on his lips as soon as he saw Chuck's arm.

"What happened?" Bryce practically leaped towards him, crossing the warehouse's floor in a few seconds.

"Nothing." He tried to shrug, wincing when he remembered his damn shoulder was dislocated. "We need to get in the car and go, Bryce."

Bryce hesitated, looking warily at Chuck's limp arm.

"_Now_." Chuck whispered with as much vehemence as he could force through the pain.

"The car's right here, Chuck. We need to reset that."

If you don't treat a situation with the proper respect, the situation treat you the same. That thought, though, was muted by an intense throb from his shoulder. He looked out one of the warehouse's windows, saw the battered, tan Volkswagen outside of it. He saw home, or at least the promise of familiar ground, familiar architecture, familiar smells. He knew that the didn't have the time to waste. Logically, their best plan was to jump in the car at that very moment, drive to Rota with the data in hand, and deal with his dislocated shoulder when they got there. Another set of nerve bundles exploded violently, making his vision go wobbly, and he nodded fiercely to Bryce: _Do it_.

In any other situation, Chuck would have again laughed at the serious expression on Bryce's face; his friend never looked seroius, especially not on a mission. The thought, though, kept running through his mind that Bryce was looking serious because of him. He was taking the time to reset Chuck's arm because they were friends and partners. Things between them had changed, but that hadn't.

They weren't the same people anymore, but they had changed together and that meant something.

Bryce tore off a thick chunk of his own shirt, balling it up to give Chuck something to bite down on. Slowly, Bryce raised Chuck's elbow to forty five degrees. He took Chuck's forearm and crossed it over in front of Chuck's body then, in intense, minute increments, began turning the forearm back out. Chuck couldn't, really, but he imagined he could hear and see the scraping of bone and muscle and soft tissue and he bit the cloth hard to keep from crying out. Finally, with what Chuck imagined in his head as an exaggerated snap, he felt the arm shift back into place. He cried out with relief. The pain was still there, but his muscles seemed calmed and the arm was at least mostly mobile.

Bryce smiled. "Piece of cake."

Chuck's face didn't even hate the chance to fall before there was the sudden roar of gunfire, and he watched in horror as a bullet buried itself in Bryce's chest.

* * *

**A/N: So, how about those Yankees? You guys all watch baseball, right?**

**...**

**Okay, yes, I've foisted a horrific cliffhanger upon you all. But, you know what, you were getting away completely clean on the cliffhanger front for 11 chapters. I felt like you were all getting a little cocky about it. I can't count the reviews that were like "Well this story is great because there were no cliffhangers."**

**Okay that didn't happen. At all. It was more that the chapter just **_**screamed**_** for a cliffhanger, and I had to oblige. I am powerless to the narrative, I tell you! Powerless!**

**I have to give my beta, Ms. **_Frea O'Scanlin_**, the credit for how well this chapter turned out. I wrote about half of this chapter completely differently and, um, it was boring. And **_Frea_** called me out on it. And I was like, "Okay well now I'm shooting Bryce." And I think she thought I was joking but HA!**

**As always, you can check for updates on how the latest chapter of Twist is coming at Castle Inanity. The web address for that guy is castleinanity(dot)blogspot(dot)com. I also do columns there occasionally! ONTOTHEREVIEWS**

**xx-crispy-mnms-lover-xx: Hah! I have converted one! It's always nice to know that I'm doing my job well enough for all of the Charah people out there to actually like Jill. Thanks for the review!**

**alex: I think I did a review reply a few chapters back that kind of fits again here. This is the **_**Chuck**_** world, and I'm just playing in its sandbox. The ideas of the Red Test and how it fits into the **_**Chuck**_** mythos is important in the show, and since I'm working within the show's mythos, it's important to the story. Sorry if you don't like it, but thanks for reviewing!**

**Nautica7mk: I always love reading your thoughts, not only about your reactions to the latest chapter, but also about the characters and how they interact and what they mean to each other, even outside my little world. I appreciate every bit of feedback you give, because it's a great help and inspiration to keep on keeping on. I have to say, though, that I'm totally glad that you don't know if Chuck is going to succeed or fail; I'm hoping its in doubt up until the very end. :) As always, thank you for your wonderful feedback.**

**MickTei: I get not liking Jill, though I'd disagree that it's out of character. Remember, Jill didn't actually cheat on Chuck, and even after six years away from him and even before she found out anything about his CIA connections, she was going on dates with him and talking with friends about him. And even after everything in her story arc, she wanted to run away with him. So, I think because my story is set at the very beginning of her relationship with Fulcrum, and knee-deep with her relationship with Chuck, it made sense to me that she's be acting more like this than like she did in Season 2. Does that make sense? Thanks for the review, and I'm glad you're liking everything else!**

**Foxmac: Ploy? Ploy? I am aghast! I am shocked! I am... okay you're totally right. :) And you know, you might just be right about Casey. Maybe. Or maybe not. But probably. But who knows I change my mind all the time. But maybe. :) Thanks for reviewing!**

**supesfan18: Thanks for the thumbs up, good sir! I agree that both Chuck and Sarah have to find themselves before they can find each other, and I'm glad I've communicated that!**

**Joe: The gradual change of Chuck is one of the things that I've been putting the most work into in this story, and I'm glad to know it's coming across. Regarding Chuck and Sarah... Well it was probably just unconscious on Chuck's part. But, then again, who knows? :) I can't **_**wait**_** for Chuck and Sarah to meet again, personally. I have a lot of fun things planned for them. But, alas, you have to wade through all this tedious Bryce-getting-shot business first. ;) Thanks for the review!**

**BDaddyDL: Thank you so much for your kind words. The change of Chuck into a spy they attempted in Season 3, well, I've tried to improve upon with my story. I'm glad it's been working! As far as the Bryce/Orion thing, well, I'm being intentionally vague about where they are in their plans. It'll make it all the more OMGNOWAY when they're sprung, ya know? Thanks for reviewing!**

**Elysion1879: Foreshadowing? Here? Nahhhhh. ;) Glad you're liking the story and thanks for the review!**

**onesmartgoalie: I tried to make the Red Test as much my own thing as I tried to make it the show's thing, and I think that was the way to do it. I'm glad you like the idea, and I hope I can pull it off for you! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Pegasus0012: Awww. I'm sorry it's taking so long! I've been busy busy busy! I promise! I even gave you mission action in this chapter! :) Thank you as always for reviewing. I really appreciate it.**

**stayinthecar: Hey, thanks for taking some time out of your no doubt busy real life to catch up on Twist! It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, seeing the chapter reviews. I'm glad you're liking all the emotional nuances I'm trying to throw in; it's awesome to know that they're being picked up on. I hope I don't actually break your heart with the story! (Okay maybe I do ;) ) But thank you for all the reviews!**

**Fire From Above: You're hitting all the selling points of Bryce and Chuck and Sarah, methinks. ;) Their finding grounding with each other, even when their distance is growing, and Bryce thinking he's doing the right thing, even when it might just end in tragedy. Though I didn't think he'd think it would be **_**his**_** tragedy. :) Thank you for the review!**

**Tynianrex: Hey, Sarah the bodyguard is a **_**great**_** idea. I kind of wish I had thought of it before I had decided on how and where Sarah was going to appear in this story so I could use it. Thank you for your kind words on my writing, and for the review.**

**tw200: Your feedback is always so much appreciated, I'm glad that even as a Charah shipper you find so much to like in my story. I'm going to try to bring back Sarah as soon as possible, I promise! :) Thank you so much for your kind words and your review.**

**jinxed97: Glad you liked it! Thanks!**

**TeamBartowski: Hectic life? Suuuuuure. YOUDIDNTLIKEITDIDYOU *cries***

**...**

**Okay I'm done now. :) I totally understand about hectic life. I apologize for taking so long between chapters recently, but my own life is hectic! I'm glad that you've found a humanity in Jill, and that you liked all the changes between the characters. I hope you're not too upset about a little cliffie! :) Thanks so much for reviewing!**


	13. Separation Sunday

_September 1st, 2004_

In the middle of the Spanish countryside, inside the classic Volkswagen careening down the road and being chased by two other cars, Bryce realized that in the middle of everything - in the middle of getting shot at and tying up his gunshot wound and trying to lose their tails, in the middle of hairpin turns and wrong-way traffic - Chuck had taken the time to buckle Bryce's seat belt.

He tried to laugh at that hazy realization, but the sound came out more like a death rattle through the ache in his lungs, with the bullet still lodged somewhere near his clavicle. They hadn't had time to find out if it had damaged any organs or nicked any major arteries. They'd only had time to bandage the wound and pray to God he didn't bleed out, or his lungs didn't collapse, or his heart just stop pumping blood.

Then, of course, there had been more gunshots.

Getting shot _at_ had been kind of fun. Getting _shot_ had _sucked_.

The car rocketed over a bump, hard and fast enough for the locking mechanism on Bryce's seat belt to activate as his body tried to jump off the back seat. A pithy comment, something like "I'm not paying for this cab ride," died on his lips when the force of his back reconnecting with the leather seat jammed another reminder of his shooting through his central nervous system.

Colors melted in the pain, the greens of the trees melding into some turquoise swirl with the sky, and the grays and beiges of the car's interior kaleidoscopic through his furiously blinking eyes.

Dying- or at least heading towards a comatose state- was actually kind of fun to look at.

When he and Chuck had been sophomores, nineteen years old and ready to rule the vast, nerdy landscape, their biggest idea had been this comic book with two superheroes. The whole sidekick thing had been played out, and true partners in the comic book world were the stuff of one-off crossovers. They were going to revolutionize the new era of comic book heroes. Kid Crush and Neuroid. It had been easy to tell who was based on whom.

The car swerved violently, Chuck swearing from the driver's seat. The car's g-forces hurtled Bryce's body horizontally across the seat, his head connecting solidly with the door. Chuck muttered a terse, but sincere, "Sorry." Bryce grinned. His attempt to say, "No problem, buddy," failed, probably because reality was becoming a little fuzzy.

He didn't have a shirt on, he realized. Well, he kind of did, it was just wrapped around him, tied tightly around his chest, blood seeping into the casual white button up like squeezing fresh strawberries into newly fallen snow. He used to do that at home in Connecticut. It was kind of pretty.

It seemed unfair, this whole bleeding out thing, when he knew so many things that Chuck didn't but _should_. Kid Crush would never have kept secrets from Neuroid.

How had they even gotten here?

The gunshot hadn't hurt at first. It had seemed like kind of a miracle, but for a solid second or two after he had felt the pressure of the bullet burrowing its way into his chest, he hadn't felt pain. All he had felt was this numb shock, this ugly _surprise_, as he watched his red blood cell count begin to drop. _Then_ the pain had hit, a burning, angry nest of wasps tunneling inside of him. He had dropped to his knees, only vaguely hearing Chuck shout, "Bryce!"

Bryce had tried a Mal quote ("Every heist he's gotta go yellin' my name"), but instead coughed up something that sounded like wet gravel.

Then there had been another gunshot, this one at Chuck, but it had pinged against the concrete floor of the building with a flash of sparks and an instant of violent noise. Chuck had turned around, and pulled something out of his jacket - a Nerf gun? - and fired it back.

Of course it had worked.

Even when Chuck did something stupid, he did something smart.

Loud scraping sounds rocketed by Bryce's head, a sure sign that Chuck was being sandwiched by the two enemy vehicles. Even the air pressure inside the vehicle increased as the Beetle began to crush like a tin can.

A horrendous mechanical squeal proceeded the ungodly pain that exploded through Bryce as his entire body flew forward. Chuck had slammed on the brakes, extricating their car from the compacter the bad guys had them in. The seat belt did its job, jerking Bryce's body from its movement, digging into his waist and sending him again back towards the seat. Bryce heard the other two cars collide with each other, and then felt his body slam into the back seat as Chuck gunned their getaway car.

Bryce felt like a pinball in a strait jacket.

Volume One, Issue One of The Adventures of Kid Crush and Neuroid: Neuroid is unwittingly drafted into a program to use a computerized tool for discovering the secret identities of the world's supervillains. The tool is called the Intersect. But Kid Crush discovers the Intersect's dark secret: use of the device will destroy Neuroid's brain.

They had never come up with ideas that good for their actual comic book.

Bryce heard Chuck breathe heavily, equal parts _Well thank God that's over _and _We're not out of the woods yet_. The cars behind them, Bryce could hear their engines gunning again, and the sound growing louder as they gained. Just because the universe seemed to hate them, the Volkswagen actually sputtered.

The Nerf dart had discombobulated the shooter enough to give Chuck time to grab Bryce and begin to haul him out the back entrance of the abandoned building. It had only been one or two seconds, but Chuck hadn't hesitated, instead he had grabbed Bryce under the armpits and darted immediately between some wooden crates.

Then the gunman had started shooting again.

Bryce had watched his blood drip down the front of his shirt, staining it from the inside. His breathing hadn't felt too labored, but it could have been shock. Issue Two of Kid Crush and Neuroid could have been about Kid Crush realizing his own mortality. It could have been about Neuroid having to carry the team on his back.

The Bug swerved violently. Bryce could feel the end fishtailing precariously, threatening to lose control. It felt like the initial clicks of a rollercoaster turned sideways. While drunk.

Issue Two, it could have had a chase scene.

Back in the warehouse, Bryce had wanted to tell Chuck to just pull out his damn gun and shoot the other guy. If he had been able to speak more than a few words through the pain, he would have said that he didn't care about his friend losing his innocence. He didn't care about Chuck turning into something he had never expected out of the guy trying to carry too many programming books that first day they had met on campus. He didn't care about Red Tests or the Intersect computer or Orion or the Omaha Project. He had wanted to just tell Chuck to shoot the other guy, God damnit.

He had just wanted to live.

Issue Three could have been about Kid Crush committing the ultimate betrayal and no one noticing.

The back end of the car righted itself, and Bryce could hear the back tires kicking up gravel and earth, spitting sloppy machine gun pellets backwards before grabbing traction on the road and accelerating forward like a cartoon. His body pitched violently, then snapped back against the seat restraints once more, for old time's sake.

Chuck had noticed the double agent before him.

Of course he had.

Had Bryce not seen the signs of the double agent? Or had he just not wanted to?

Consciousness swam, and reality shifted a bit. His breathing, he could tell, was getting slightly more labored. Maybe the bullet had been a bit closer to the lung then they had previously thought. Another jarring left turn caused pain to explode through his shoulder. It felt like maybe the dollop of lead still embedded in his shoulder was shifting. He hiccuped an ugly, fish out of water gasp.

Bryce saw Chuck whip his head around at the sound, taking his eyes off the road for only a moment. _Are you alright?_ Bryce caught the smidgeon of panic in that instant and swallowed down half of the pain, exhaling the other half in a deep yoga breath. _Yeah, buddy. Keep driving._

Bryce only saw the third car for about half a second before it crashed into them head on.

The fourth issue of the Adventures of Kid Crush and Neuroid could have been about dying.

Maybe it would have just been a mini series.

* * *

_September 1st, 2004_

Bryce was running.

To something? From something? His head was hazy, but he knew he was being chased. He wove through the trees, not entirely sure where he was heading. The sun was low in the sky, burning the skyline orange. It lent an ominous feeling to the anonymous chase, sending glowing beams of ugly light down between the gaps in the canopy.

He was in Spain, he remembered.

Bryce's head burst as if hit with a cartoon anvil as he tried to think about what had happened and he stumbled over nothing, going to his knees. His shoulder ached with a dull, ice-cold pain. It was wrapped in blood-soaked tatters of his own shirt, tied around him as if he were attending some sort of morbid toga party. God, why was he in so much pain?

Memories crawled out of the haze. Being shot. Chuck dragging him to the car. The chase.

The crash.

Where was Chuck?

The foliage was beginning to fall from the branches in Spain; it was the beginning of autumn. Dry earth and leaves and patches of grass shifted in Bryce's fingers as they struggled to support his weight. His wounded arm shook against the pressure. He looked at the makeshift bandage wrapped around his upper torso again, the deathly ache shooting through him once more.

Bryce remembered the car crashing, remembered how the familiar tug of the seat belt had felt gripping him with the strength of modern engineering. The impact of the crash, the gravitational forces and the Newtonian physics, had knocked him out. He had come to in the woods, running. Bryce figured he had a concussion.

Attempting to get back to his feet felt like reassembling his entire body from the feet up. The bitter hurt made it seem as though he was aligning all of the bones and muscles in their proper place by hand, attaching all the ligaments with gut string. By the time he stood, Bryce felt as though he had taken an entire human biology course in five seconds.

He tried to concentrate, but the insistent buzz in the back of his head made it difficult. He tried to get a solid read on his surroundings, tried to push aside pain and focus on _performing the task_, just like he had been trained. He imagined Agent McKenzie's sarcastic reprimands and was able to sharpen his focus a bit; not much gave Bryce greater satisfaction than proving that man wrong.

With the sun that low, it meant early evening. It was probably around six or seven o'clock. When they had crashed, the sky had been lit a much cleaner yellow.

He must have been out a few hours.

Why wasn't he dead? Had his body been thrown from the vehicle? He had been securely strapped in, he vividly remembered Chuck making sure of it. Bryce examined himself, running his unobstructed arm over his body, finding fresh wounds along his back. They didn't seem to suggest forcible ejection from the car. Instead, they seemed to indicate that he had been dragged somewhere, through the rough Spanish underbrush.

Had it been Chuck? Had it been one of their pursuers?

Bryce cringed as another dead thud of pain ached inside of him like the opposite of a heartbeat.

As much as he hated thinking of the man, Bryce conjured up memories of McKenzie's anti-torture tactics. Focus your mind, Larkin. Concentrate on one single idea, one single thought that nothing else can get to. Focus on that, and forget everything else.

Bryce remembered Chuck carrying him through the warehouse, remembered Chuck firing on the enemy agents with a Nerf gun. Bryce condensed his thought to that feeling, where he didn't care any more if Chuck was a killer, as long as it meant them getting out of there alive. Bryce had been willing to throw all of that away, just to fucking survive.

Memories blinked back around the peripheral edges of that single thought. It had been Chuck who had dragged him through the underbrush. After the car crash, Chuck had pulled out another contraband item. It had been a tranquilizer pistol from his sock. Chuck had started firing tranquilizer darts at the men shooting at them with real, live bullets.

Because of course Chuck had.

It had worked, because Chuck was one of the best shots Bryce had ever seen, like some sort of pacifist savant. Years of _Duck Hunt_ training had seen to it. There had been these quick noises, the camouflaged snake hiss of air surreptitiously escaping the pressurized chamber, and Bryce remembered how the enemy agents' heads had slumped forward in a comical left to right fashion, as if they and Chuck had planned the whole thing as some complex sight gag.

Bryce rested his body against a nearby tree. The bark was sandpaper rough, rubbing his bare arms even rawer. Through the concussed haze, Bryce was aware of the screaming, zigzag maze of bright red scratches that must have been crisscrossing his back. He couldn't see them, but they fought through the ether with pinpricks of intensity that danced across his shoulder blades and down his spine.

Something acrid burned his nostrils. Probably the corpse of the car crash.

Where was Chuck?

The trees shot up like classic Greek pillars, so straight and seemingly infinite as they reached up toward the sky. They created thin slats through which Bryce could see tiny doorways of infinity, like looking outside through layers of vertical blinds, or looking at once of those change-as-you-move-them pictures.

He had to find the road.

He gathered himself, ignoring the pain that shivered brutally through his body. He stayed focus on the memory of letting himself give up on Chuck's innocence. He kept moving forward, toward where he believed the road to be. He focused on how he had been willing to sacrifice the efforts he and Orion were making - were continuing to make - to keep Chuck from doing exactly what Bryce's mind had been screaming for Chuck to do.

After the crash, Chuck had taken a few moments to compose himself, then had dragged Bryce out of the vehicle with the adrenaline-fueled strength of a mother with a trapped child. It seemed like he could have lifted the entire VW Bug over his head to get Bryce out. Bryce remembered being little more than dead weight, the loss of blood and violence of the continued impacts in the car robbing him of more than a barely-formed consciousness.

Chuck hadn't seemed to know where he was going either.

The pain swelled, like the rumbling crescendo of the classical music Bryce's mother had listened to. He lost the memory for a moment, falling to his knees. They ached as they hit the dirt loudly, causing reverberations up and down his body. Bryce's hands shot out, holding the rest of his body away from the ground. As he looked around, the lower vantage point suddenly seemed to make things clearer.

He almost shook his head to clear it, then realized how counterproductive that would be. Instead he looked at the broken twigs and rustled foliage in front of him. It was obviously from a body. It was probably from his body. Like finding footprints in the snow.

Chuck had dragged him out here, and had left him. Bryce must have lost consciousness before Chuck had left. Had Chuck been shot at? Actually shot? Bryce crawled through underbrush, McKenzie's principles of tracking coalescing in his mind. He noticed the angle at which twigs bent, the way leaves crunched against the ground. With the path laid out before him, Bryce could practically map the pathways that bled from his back.

A faint _something_ caused the hairs on the back of Bryce's neck to stand up.

There was noise in the distance.

Relief he didn't know was being held back rushed out of him in torrents. The crushing loneliness and uncertainty gave way to a more familiar - and more bearable - terror. A seen enemy is always less potent than an unseen enemy, Bryce remembered McKenzie saying. A known quantity is always less imposing than an unknown. A soldier you can fight, a ghost you can't.

Bryce felt like a ghost.

The noise, Bryce recognized it the ugly, rusty sounds of metal against metal. It was rhythmic, a slightly lackadaisical beat that sounded like a lazy approximation of Morse code. He picked up his battered body and began trudging through the forest.

He remembered Orion talking about Red Tests, and how Bryce would have to I am become Death.

He remembered the meeting with Graham.

The man had been cordial. The few times Bryce had met Graham, the CIA Director had always had the kind of smile on his face that either meant he needed something from you, or he needed absolutely _nothing_ from you. "Thank you for coming, Trainee Larkin," Graham had said.

"Thank you, sir." Bryce had known he was supposed to put an extras emphasis on the _you_, but hadn't. If Graham had noticed, he had ignored it.

In the Spanish forest, Bryce could see the cars now, thin strips visible through the brush of twisted Art Deco sculpture against the landscape. The pain in his chest, it seemed gone. Bryce wasn't entirely sure if it was the result of adrenaline or death. His legs churned with the closest approximation to running they could manage, an elderly hobble, his left leg sliding roughly against his right, using it to maintain balance.

Chuck was still nowhere.

"Sit, Larkin. Sit." Graham's forced cordiality had rubbed Bryce wrong. He sat, but made sure his body language included every indicator he had been trained to recognize as uncooperative.

The office had looked like one grand ode to mahogany, with the huge wooden desk sitting imposingly in the center of everything. Bookshelves of the same wood had decorated the walls, and the deep, dark red color of the carpet had given way to lighter walls, decorated with picture frames of people, in Bryce's mind, Graham had met, but didn't really know.

How could someone in Graham's position afford to know anyone?

As soon as Graham had sat down, the smile had disappeared, and the white that had sneaked out from between his lips retreated, casting his face in the deathly serious glow that Bryce had instantly recognized as the entire damn reason Graham was in his current position.

There had been a single manila envelope on the desk. It had been unmarked.

All of the chairs in the room, the one Graham had sat in, the one Bryce had sat in, the one next to Bryce, across that massive desk from Graham, they were all mahogany.

"Inside this envelope, Trainee Larkin, is the information on your Red Test."

Then Graham had pushed the envelope across the desk, his fingers pushing into the material, causing tiny indentations and revealing the man's not inconsiderate strength. Bryce had watched as the force caused the envelope to grip the desk desperately, as if trying not to be handed over. Outwardly, he had forced himself to remain calm. Internally, he had realized he had wanted the envelope from the moment he saw it. Internally, he had realized he had hoped it would never reach him.

The folder moving across the desk had sounded exactly like the car crash Bryce had just survived.

There were bodies by the cars. One in the ditch next to the vehicles, one man stretched across the hood of a car, his limbs wrenched at odd angles like a tangled marionette. The rest were still in the cars, but even most of those men were dead, their eyes closed or glassy and dull.

None of them were Chuck.

Bryce ran his fingers over the twisted steel of one of the cars. It had been the one pursuing since the beginning. When Chuck had carried Bryce out of the warehouse, Bryce had seen the archaic black Oldsmobile tucked neatly into an ugly alley. Underneath the vehicles a barrage of liquid chemicals leaked onto the ground, mixing together in an earthen Petri dish. The smell was something out of a third-world hospital; home-made antiseptics and blood.

The envelope that Graham had given him before the mission had been a document roughly three hundred pages, but it may as well have been only two sentences. You will discover a traitor. Kill him.

There was a sudden, stark inhalation of breath. It took Bryce a few moments to realize it wasn't his own. There was a man alive inside the car.

The traitor.

It felt like an out of body experience as Bryce opened the car door, the hinges creaking with rust and mechanical pain. It took an extra surge of strength for Bryce's good arm to open the thing, as the frame had twisted like a rattlesnake in the impact. The body of one of the traitor's comrades sat unmoving next to him, the seat belt still in place.

Bryce crawled over the dead body, his good arm holding up his weight until he could position himself over the traitor. The man was wheezing, ribs likely broken and puncturing his lungs. He tried to choke out words, but Bryce couldn't make them out and didn't particularly want to. Instead, Bryce could only see the memory of this man shooting at him and Chuck back at the warehouse. How Bryce had simply wished Chuck would kill him.

Kill him so Bryce wouldn't have to. Sacrifice himself for Bryce's own clean conscience.

The first punch Bryce threw was an awkward, feeble thing, not even snapping the man's head at all. But by the second, the third, the fourth, muscle memory began to set in, his brain calculating the brutal physicality of angles and torque and velocity. Each punch was a plea for Chuck's forgiveness. Each punch was a rededication to Orion's cause. Each punch was a promise to keep Chuck from ever being in this position.

There was a noise in the background, an annoying fly tossing a monkey wrench into his thoughts, the cadence and tone intentionally working against the rhythm of his blows. It grew louder and louder, and Bryce put more energy into the punches as it did. Only when the noise was practically next to him did the nonsense syllables suddenly coalesce into words.

"_Bryce!_" Chuck's voice broke through.

Bryce stopped, his arm still cocked behind his head. He looked at Chuck, the reality of the situation out of the grasp of his addled consciousness. He noticed that a rough splint had been made around Chuck's arm. The left arm. The same arm he had injured.

"Bryce," Chuck said again, this time so much more quietly that Bryce could detect every emotion in that one word. Shock. Disappointment. Disgust.

Bryce looked back at the body of the traitor. The man's face looked like something out of an ultraviolent version of _Fight Club_, the bones jutting out at wrong angles, the teeth scattered across the back seats. As Bryce let his cocked arm fall, his fingers brushed against the man's arm. It was cold. The man had probably been dead after the first punch.

"Bryce," Chuck said one more time, and it was little more than a whisper.

* * *

**A/N: Dear. God. That took long enough didn't it? Yes. Yes it did. My excuse? Um. Life. Job. Lots of other writing. This being a really weird part of the story. Blah blah blah.**

**BUT. Here it is. And hey, don't worry, I already have 50% of the next chapter written, and about 20% of the chapter after that and about 15% of the chapter after THAT. So there should not be such a delay again.**

**In the interest of getting this chapter up to everybody, I decided to pass over my typical "replying to every review" thing. But I will be sure to do it for next chapter! Hope you liked it, everyone! Thanks for stickin' around!**


	14. I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness

_September 12, 2004_

The target's name was Aaron DeCartes. He was French. Day Car Tay. You don't pronounce the S, Agent McKenzie had said.

The man was classically handsome, Chuck supposed, in that European club owner sort of way; a description he shouldn't have ever known but now did. DeCartes' hair was slicked back and his smile was perpetually devious and sharp at the edges. His suit was expensive just by sight, and so was his wine. He slithered smoothly through the crowd, selling snake oil to the most gullible faces and selling the gullible faces back to the other snakes.

He was either running guns through impoverished Eastern European countries, exacerbating the region's predilection for violence, or he was blockading the running of guns through impoverished Eastern European countries, a champion for peace. The answer depended on which former President you were talking to. More likely he was doing both.

Charles Carmichael had short hair. This meant Chuck Bartowski had to get a hair cut.

Chuck was used to walking down spiral staircases without using the railings now, which was one of the more bizarre curios of the CIA training lexicon. He ran his fingers through the unfamiliar feeling on the top of his head as he descended, making sure to draw just enough attention with his entrance to fit in with everyone else, and then be forgotten just as quickly.

DeCartes laughed with the Lithuanian Prime Minister. Chuck watched.

Nothing was ever what it seemed during a state dinner held by black market dictators. Handshakes weren't handshakes, but heart-crushing declinations of a deal three months in the making. A pat on the back meant a new shipment of sidewinder missiles. Depending on the amount of teeth in DeCartes smile, a Prime Minister knew whether he should prepare for a victory parade or a coup d'etat.

Killing a lion, Agent McKenzie had said during their briefing, just puts another lion at the head of the pride. Cutting off that same lion's legs, though, cripples and confuses the entire system just long enough to sneak in between the cracks.

Chuck was basically a trip wire.

He ran his fingers through his hair again, feeling someone else beneath his scalp, as he took long, smooth strides across the ballroom's elegant wood floors. Long hair just gave your enemy an advantage they didn't need. Sarah had told him that, during one of their first sparring sessions.

"You have long hair," he had said.

"If anyone could catch me, I'd be more worried." She had smiled as she had said it and it had probably been the first time Chuck had seen her do that.

He had his hair cut the next day.

He had watched Bryce kill a man.

Now whenever he saw a flash of the color yellow, like the swirling, elegant maelstrom of sunshine that was the dress of Monsieur DeCartes' escort for the evening, he thought of Spanish autumn and twisted wreckage. And Bryce.

Bryce, pummeling a man already mostly dead.

Bryce, his knuckles wet with blood.

"Excuse moi, monsieur," Chuck said as he smiled at a dignitary who almost backed into him. The rotund man, dressed in something ridiculous that signified time in the military spent doing nothing, smiled drunkenly at him.

"My young man, you look so _serious_!" the dignitary, obviously a tag-a-long, replied to Chuck in half-garbled Italian. Or, at least, that was what Chuck reasoned he had said. He wasn't quite as fluent in Italian as he was with French and Spanish, but those Latin languages stumbled over each other enough that he felt confident in his appraisal.

He smiled at the shorter man, taking care not to draw too much attention to how he was straightening out his appearance; he did not want to appear insulting. "For serious matters, Monsieur DeCartes requests serious people," Chuck replied in hushed Italian, and watched in morbid fascination as the gentleman's face dropped. Chuck's smile turned vaguely threatening and, not for the first time, he completely forgot who he was.

Chuck hadn't been sleeping well since getting back from Spain. Trauma, a probable concussion, stress, and fear had all been listed by CIA psychiatrists as possible factors. He'd seen at least four different shrinks since getting back from Rota.

Bryce had barely even been asked to speak during the debriefing.

Chuck wasn't supposed to have been redeployed for international field training so soon, but he had been too anxious and uncomfortable in the apartment not to make the request. He had spent most mornings watching Bryce eat Apple Jacks and wanting to strangle his friend for it.

The ballroom was all old European wealth, with high Roman ceilings and Greek pillars and French decor. DeCartes' tastes weren't so much an homage to the history of his continent so much as they were a theft of them, pulling in various elements and putting them together in a way that was the across-the-pond version of a trophy wife's home.

Then again, Chuck still had _TRON_ posters.

When Agent McKenzie had given Chuck the mission, the older man had prowled the small, nondescript conference room from side to side like a caged animal. He had opened by saying, "Your mission, should you choose to accept it," with enough disdain that Chuck actually felt ashamed for having seen the Tom Cruise _Mission Impossible _movies. Then he had given what amounted to a poorly- done PowerPoint presentation on Aaron DeCartes.

Why the CIA couldn't afford some basic Javascript in their briefings was beyond Chuck.

He took a seat at the bar, ordering an Old Fashioned because ordering a vodka martini was too cliché, even for him. The amber liquid glowed a shade somewhere between rust and gold in the dim light and Chuck only just resisted the urge to hold it up to the light before he took a solid draught.

The flash drive, the one from Spain, was burning a hole in his pocket about as effectively as the scotch was burning its way down his throat.

The data they had found on it had been more than what the brass had originally thought. It had been names upon names, and had corresponded eerily with people the CIA or the NSA or whoever had been trying to nail for treasonous behavior for months or years now. But it was just the names. Now they had to connect it with something.

The party DeCartes was having instantly became a two-birds-one-stone scenario. Connecting the names on the list with DeCartes proved the names were up to something. Connecting DeCartes with the names on the list proved DeCartes was up to something. Having Chuck program a backdoor so the CIA could cross reference the two lists with impunity proved to Chuck that he was still just a computer nerd. He just had a gun now.

Bryce had killed a man and Chuck couldn't stay at home because he just couldn't _not_ care. So now he was in the south of France trying to hack into an international arms dealer's computer system, undoubtedly to find people either he or Bryce would be asked to kill.

Chuck could ignore the hypocrisy of it if he didn't think about it too much. Or drank enough. Or both.

He resisted the urge to tap his fingers impatiently against the bar's counter. Instead, he sipped his drink, feeling its brutal warmth slip down his throat and settle into his stomach. Patience, he had found, was defined in the spy world less by waiting and more about restraining yourself from hating yourself so vehemently that you just admitted what you were doing to the entire world.

"I do not believe I know you." The woman whom he had taken a seat next to spoke Spanish, and looked it. Her skin was dark and flawless, her hair cascading effortlessly down her back to the point where she almost looked impossible. Dressed in devil red, and with a face that was beautiful _despite_ its hard lines, Chuck knew immediately that she was probably a person of disrepute. He wasn't entirely sure if he cared.

"You don't," he heard Charles Carmichael reply in the woman's native tongue. He turned in his seat toward her. "Charles Carmichael," he said, nodding in her direction.

"I am Marlena." The woman extended her hand with the clear intention of having Chuck take it and kiss it. He did.

"It's a pleasure, Marlena."

She seemed to take a moment to gather him in, and he only just resisted checking his hair for the hundredth time to make sure it was as short as it had been this morning. "So, Mr. Carmichael, how are you enjoying your first trip to Marseilles?"

The question was one designed to trip him up, and Chuck wondered idly if she was an enforcer of some kind for DeCartes, a praying mantis or black widow that drew men in only to leave them dismembered. "My first trip?" Chuck allowed his smile to grow wide in contradiction but stay short of mocking. "My fifth, actually. Though my first for business."

The casual answer seemed to be the correct one, as Marlena's carefully hidden apprehension melted into something more overtly seductive. "Normally you come for pleasure, then?"

Chuck couldn't muster up the false bravado to respond agreeably to that remark. "Something like that," he said in soft Spanish.

Marlena's shoulders shifted backwards, a subtle movement that made her seem more approachable and less predatory. It was a physical indication Chuck read to mean that the woman had changed her mind about him about three or four different times just in the course of the conversation. Which wasn't too hard to believe; Chuck himself had done the same thing.

"Would you like to dance, Mr. Carmichael?" she asked, and most of the previously rampant pretense was absent; it seemed like nothing more than a genuine question in an estate of ingenuous people.

For Charles Carmichael, the answer had to be no. He had a firewall to decrypt and a database to covertly download onto Monsieur DeCartes' network. He had a mission to complete. Taking time to James Bond his way across the dance floor with some woman he had just met was foolish, no matter how striking her beauty may have been.

For Chuck Bartowski, the answer had to be no. He was nervous. He was too tall. Too awkward. Too _not_ a dancer. He had a girlfriend. He was a capital letter Good Person. He didn't even really know what he was doing here, and he certainly didn't know what that flash drive was doing in his pocket. Chuck Bartowski was supposed to excuse himself, and then politely go have a "man up" moment in the bathroom.

Whatever personality smiled gently at Marlena and said "Sure," Chuck certainly didn't recognize.

Par for the course.

* * *

_September 24, 2004_

It was Chuck's birthday and Chuck wasn't in the apartment.

_Agent_ Larkin, your partner _Trainee_ Bartowski is in France attempting to link Aaron DeCartes to a variety of suspected terrorists and anti-government agents in the United States. McKenzie had said it to Bryce authoritatively enough to belay any questions, condescendingly enough to shame him into hanging his head.

Chuck's off doing your job, was basically what McKenzie had said.

Chuck's a trainee and you're an agent and he's off doing your job.

Bryce had even purchased a present for his roommate. One of the actual hats that Harrison Ford had worn in _Temple of Doom_. Something to protect his head. Though Bryce knew that no amount of movie paraphernalia was going to keep Chuck from the Intersect project, it still seemed appropriate.

Since Spain, Bryce had been granted full agent status, and then granted an inexplicable vacation.

McKenzie had said it was because he needed to sort his head out. Then, in that gruff voice, had begrudgingly told Bryce congratulations.

It hadn't meant a thing.

Bryce sat alone at the breakfast table, staring at a half-eaten bowl of Apple Jacks. Idly, he flipped the Indiana Jones hat onto his head, leaving it there for a moment, and then just as easily grabbing it off, the movement fluid and practiced.

He was in his robe and boxer shorts and nothing else.

He had killed a man and he didn't care.

The U.S. government was stepping up its surveillance of Alejandro Goya, according to Orion. It meant that within a few months, he was likely going to be assigned to some trainee as a Red Test. It meant Goya was probably going to die soon.

Or, if Orion had his way, he wasn't.

There was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black next to the bowl of cereal.

Bryce momentarily considered mixing the two, then decided flipping the hat back onto his head would be a smarter way to pass the time. He watched the hat half-drunkenly as it tumbled over his fingers, spinning in his hand as it approached his head, then smiled in amusement as he felt the suede prop find its place on his skull.

"Snakes," Bryce quipped to no one. "Why did it have to be snakes?"

According to Orion, Goya was quietly plotting a Caribbean cartel among the islands. Joining Communist forces with Cuba and Jamaica, with Haiti and the Dominican Republic. An ugly, black market hub hidden by smiling resorts and beach paradises. Gun running funded by traveller's checks. He had Castro close to coming on board, but another attempt on the Premier's life would probably break the tenuous thread that bound the two revolutionaries.

Even if Chuck didn't kill the Premier, the intent of the mission would be successful.

They just wanted to break Bryce's friend.

Bryce thought he might have done that already. He remembered with startling clarity not the look of the man that Bryce had beaten to death with his own fits, but Chuck's look of shock, of revulsion, of disappointment. Bryce remembered the way Chuck's mouth had hung open, the way his shoulders hung heavily as if in defeat.

There was a cherry cheesecake in the fridge.

In Costa Gravas, there would be jungle and heat and, according to Orion, some Major named Casey, though if that was a first name or last name, Bryce hadn't been able to suss out. There would be camouflaged ammo pouches and knives in ankle sheathes, dangerous animals and possibly hiding within walls. Orion hadn't been able to determine the accuracy of a report claiming "Casey" had hid out in the interior architecture of Goya's estate for a week.

There wouldn't be cereal, or suede Harrison Ford hats, or cherry cheesecake.

"Don't call me 'Junior,'" Bryce added.

Even knowing Chuck wasn't going to be there, Bryce had set up an entire birthday celebration for his friend because what else was he going to do? He'd bought an original Nintendo Entertainment System and scrounged out his copy of _the Legend of Zelda_. Bryce had just got the raft.

Chuck would be murdering a violent dictator and Bryce would be sitting at home waiting for deployment, forgetting to shave and trying vainly to get past the sixth dungeon. Bryce had always needed Chuck's help on the sixth dungeon.

Bryce flipped the hat off his head again.

The hat was heavier than he had expected, and actually felt hefty in his hands. He had expected it to be feather-light, to be easy to flip high into the air and to be gentle when it came falling onto his head. When he had first tried that particular trick, Bryce had almost felt as though he had given himself a concussion.

Orion was ninety-eight percent certain that the CIA was going to sanction another attempt on Goya's life, and seventy-three percent certain that the mission would be a part of a recruit's Red Test. Orion had percentages for everything. Twenty-nine percent sure that Director Graham's favorite ice cream was Rocky Road. Eighty-one percent sure that Langley's cafeteria would serve meatloaf that week.

Bryce was one hundred thirty-two percent sure he wanted to punch Orion in the face.

Bryce's hand reached out toward either the spoon of his cereal or the neck of his bottle of scotch. It hesitated halfway between each, unsure of which way to go.

"Fortune and glory, kid," Bryce muttered and grabbed the scotch.

They'd written Chuck a recommendation for a mission directly reflecting any possible Goya mission. Well, Orion had dictated it and Bryce had written it down. Orion had given it a letterhead that was seventy percent more likely to be read than any other officially recognized letterhead of the CIA and Bryce had to actually deliver it.

It was in the back pocket of the jeans he wasn't wearing.

He took a swig off the bottle of Johnnie because why the hell not?

It was Chuck's birthday and Chuck was out doing his job, out on actual missions. It was Chuck's birthday and Bryce was at home with a dumb hat, a robe, and the choice between marshmallows and malt liquor.

It was Chuck's birthday and Bryce was giving the man either a death sentence or failing to give him a death sentence.

Bryce carelessly put the hat back on his head.

"Nothing shocks me. I'm a scientist."

It was Chuck's birthday.

* * *

_October 11, 2004_

Jill was running.

It was something she had taken up over the course of the last few months, jogging through the streets of L.A. in the vain attempt that it would make it seem like the scenic, circuitous routes she and her boys used to navigate that last year at Stanford. But the militant grids of the suburbs around the City of Angels weren't the immaculate landscapes of campus, just like her life now wasn't what it had been then.

Chuck Bartowski's name now was published in scientific journals, as an assistant to Dr. George Fleming. They had published the tests they were running on encoding visual images with information. Jill had read it. There had been a _TRON_ reference hidden in it and she had both laughed and cried a little bit when she noticed it.

She stopped at a red light, doing the stupid thing that runners do where they jog in place to keep their heart rate up. Back on campus, there had been no red lights, just her and Bryce keeping pace with each other while her boyfriend intentionally trailed behind, where she could look over her shoulder and blush and smile at the fact that he was staring at her.

The world used to disappear during her runs. Her body would ache and sweat, her lungs would try to suck in enough air, her muscles would burn with the build up of lactic acid. Everything else would disappear, her mind too worried about basic respiratory functions to stress about anything else. Now, her runs were more like a night of drinking after a hard week. She used them simply to dull her own senses.

A man had died in front of her.

The light turned green and her feet pushed her forward across the warm, soft concrete. The jogging shoes under her feet were not as comfortable as the soft material of the shoes she wore in the research labs and, truth be told, they were probably a half or full size too small. They dug into her heels even through the athletic socks Jill wore and she knew that she'd hiss in pain as she removed them after her run. But the pain seemed necessary.

She had visited Ellie recently. Ellie and Devon had moved into an apartment in Echo Park, near the hospital where they were both currently residents. The apartment had been both simple and homey, a reflection of Ellie to a T. There had been pictures of Chuck around, and to Jill they had seemed like those creepy framed pictures families keep of children who passed away fifteen years prior. He would be thirty-two today, these people would say.

Chuck would be- _was_, she reminded herself- twenty-four.

She, Ellie, Devon and Morgan had played board games and all Jill could keep thinking was that Ellie was a doctor. Logic and political affiliations be damned, Ellie should have been the one in that room where Jill watched a man die. Ellie should have been in that room where Jill killed a man. She could have saved him, or at least stabilized him. Ellie was a doctor. She could have done _something_.

Then Ellie had laughed and her wide, open smile and hearty laugh had reminded Jill of Chuck. Or at least of how Chuck used to be.

Jill could feel the light sheen of sweat covering her body in the California heat, and her heart pounded in her ears. It was shutting everything out, causing a silence that Los Angeles couldn't procure naturally.

It was in the silences that the ghost of Chuck reared its head. His distance made him seem dead. His silence made him seem unconcerned. His absence drew a spotlight to the fact that his outsized personality had been the glue that had held the people together. Jill missed him.

When Ellie had laughed, back at the apartment in Echo Park, Jill felt like if she closed her eyes, she could hear depressingly open spaces that Chuck's laugh would have fit perfectly into.

Then again, Chuck didn't laugh so much anymore. Neither did she.

She kept pushing her body, going straight on Glendale when she would usually turn, determined to double the length of her route. Jill tried to ignore the fact that it felt like she was just trying to outrun her loneliness and failed.

Her box, the one Chuck had helped her conceive, had been actually, physically built over a month ago now, shortly after the last time she had seen Chuck. She had watched through glass walls as woodworkers had cut planks from scrap pieces of wood to create walls. They used sanders and grinders and other manner of electrical tools to chisel intricate designs into the woodwork: codes that marked it as Fulcrum. Artists took the time to hand paint the numbers for the Rubik's Cube slash Sudoku key onto each individual tile. Engineers reconstructed the block from those individual tiles. Metal workers cut copper for the actual key, and for the spring mechanism that launched it.

For whatever reason, and maybe it was because she saw herself as a murderer now, it made sense to Jill that the most lauded of her achievements would be a tool of deception.

The last time Jill had talked to her boyfriend had been three weeks ago. She had missed his birthday.

She had watched a team of twenty men built a small box. She had watched a man die as his closest associates did nothing to save him.

Chuck would be twenty-four, if he were still alive. Maybe he was.

As she tried to outrun her ghosts, Jill couldn't decide whether or not that was true.

She had missed his birthday.

* * *

**A/N: THIS IS ANOTHER CHAPTER OF A STORY.**


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